


The Weight of Your Coffin

by MDJensen



Series: The Weight of Your Coffin: the series [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Divergent after 2x01, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Plenty of Athos too but those two are definitely the mains, Porthos and d'Artagnan friendship like whoa, so much bed sharing i'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-04 09:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4133121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis is dead. </p><p>Well, he isn't, but that doesn't make things any easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I'm slightly freaking out that this effing story is finally done. I literally had some of these scenes *before* series two aired-- that's how damn long I've been writing this. As the season progressed, I tried to keep this as close a possible to something that could conceivably fit between 2x01 and 2x02, but in the end I declare, fuck that, I'll just call it AU. So, this is canon divergent from 2x01, beginning a day or two after Aramis finds out about Adele.
> 
> But seriously, back to how long I've been writing this. I've been writing this a damn long time. I hope you enjoy :)

“Porthos.”

The clock in Treville' office was ticking loudly.

“Porthos.”

_Tick. Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

“Porthos.”

Outside, the sound of friendly sparring; of someone-- probably Henri-- losing at hand-to-hand.

“ _Porthos_.” The voice was no longer Treville's but Athos', and through the dizzy haze of a mind trying to be anywhere but where it was, Porthos clawed his way back to his friend.

“Do you understand?”

All at once, he realized that Athos had him by the arm, was steadying him firmly. Treville's fingers brushed his other elbow. D'Artagnan lingered within easy reach.

“Porthos,” Treville said again. “Do you understand what I've told you? Answer me, son.”

“Yes.” It was a pathetic little croak. Porthos fought not to drift away again. “Yes, I understand what you've told me, Captain.”

“What have I told you, Porthos?”

_Tick. Tick._

Porthos blinked.

“He's dead.”

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

“Aramis is dead.”

*

“Porthos,” d'Artagnan murmured, and Porthos reached up to wipe his eyes only to find he wasn't weeping. Then why was the world all a blur? He struggled to focus, realized they were in a tavern-- why, were they drinking to Aramis already?

“He's in shock.” Athos' voice was tight and the tiniest bit hoarse. They were sitting around a table, though he couldn't remember having walked there. Perhaps he was dreaming?

“It's like he's dazed.”

He was dreaming. That had to be it. Thank the Lord, that was it-- they weren't in the tavern, he was safe in bed, and Aramis was alive.

“That's what shock is. Take him home.”

He'd have to tell him about the dream tomorrow. They'd laugh. Maybe hug-- he could use one. Silly he was so upset by it, but he was; he could feel his hands trembling.

“Come with us. This is the fourth tavern we've been to and nobody remembers seeing Aramis. Let's quit for tonight. We'll try again in the morning.”

Aramis wasn't even dead anymore, only missing! The dream couldn't even bother to be consistent.

“Athos, we'll find the men who did this. I swear it. It's past midnight. Let's try to get a few hours sleep.”

And then they were home, d'Artagnan's quarters from the looks of it, and Porthos was curled up tightly on the bed. D'Artagnan sat beside him, tears running down his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he gasped, as Athos joined them, and put a hand to d'Artagnan's face and said, “ _shh, shh, shh--_ ”

Porthos shut his eyes and waited to wake up.

*

Athos woke before sunrise. Wine and grief had soured his stomach, and he made discreet use of the chamberpot and took it out to be emptied before the others came around.

Inside, he slumped once again at the table. The empty bottle spun uselessly in his hands as he wished for more wine, wished for sleep to reclaim him, wished for the others to wake as well.

Wished for Aramis to walk through the door and explain the mistake.

Because it didn't make sense, the captain's story; how could a musketeer of Aramis' skill have lost his life to a gang of common thugs? How could he have survived all he had survived only to die for the coins in his purse? It was ridiculous. It was asinine.

A sound from the bed brought Athos back, and he looked over to see Porthos pushing himself up heavily. He looked around, blinked, and slumped into himself.

“That all really happened, eh?”

“Yeah.”

Porthos hauled himself to the table and stood beside Athos. “What'd we find last night?”

“Nothing. We asked around in all his standard taverns, and nobody remembers seeing him.”

“He might not've been at a tavern. Did we check the churches?”

“Today,” Athos whispered.

And then Porthos had pulled him to his feet and was clutching him tightly; in the warmth of those arms Athos melted like snow, thinning out, shrinking, disappearing. He allowed himself to. For a long moment he allowed himself to know nothing but the safety of Porthos' embrace, with its heat and its broadness and the familiar smell of metal and leather.

“I'll be with you today,” Porthos rumbled.

“Nobody blames you for yesterday,” Athos replied, rubbing his friend's back and taking a moment to ensure that he was holding Porthos as tightly as Porthos was holding him.

“Know y'don't. But I _will_ be with you today.” There was a pause, and then Porthos continued, in a much weaker voice, “can't believe he's gone, Athos.”

Abrupt emotion choked Athos' throat. He tried to speak, but found he couldn't-- found he had no words to offer in any case.

They stood a while longer, then let each other go. When Athos pulled his face away from Porthos' shoulder, he caught sight of d'Artagnan, awake now and staring at them with an absent expression.

“C'mere,” Porthos ordered, opening his arms towards their youngest. D'Artagnan shook his head, climbed out of the cocoon of blankets he'd buried himself in, and stretched tentatively.

“I'm all right. What's our plan for the day?”

“Finish with the taverns, move onto the churches.”

“Should we--” Porthos began, then stopped.

“What?”

“Should we see the undertaker?”

D'Artagnan bit his lip. “Treville doesn't want us to.”

“When did that happen?”

“When he told us. I asked if we could and he said we couldn't-- I think he was right. I don't-- I don't think I want to see him.”

Athos frowned. “If it were anyone else, we would see the body. We'd look for clues to the identity of his assailants.”

“But this ain't _anyone else_ ,” Porthos replied. “I don't want to either. 'm sorry I suggested it.”

“All right,” Athos consented, though at the back of his mind he reserved the idea. He could go alone, if necessary. “We should check at the churches first. Save the last of the taverns for this evening, when more patrons will be there.”

“Wait.” Porthos' voice was small.

“What is it?” Athos prompted.

“I don't-- remember what Treville said. I mean, _any_ of it.” Porthos' head was hanging. “'m sorry. I know neither of you should have t'say it again, but-- I just wasn't listenin'.”

D'Artagnan's hand found his shoulder. “It's all right, Porthos. Ready now?”

He nodded.

“Aramis was found in an alley not far from the Wren,” d'Artagnan explained. “They-- that is, the captain, eh-- it was clear he'd been drinking heavily, Porthos. Still in uniform, so the Red Guards did the noble thing for once and brought him to Treville. He'd been attacked, all his weapons and money taken. He was shot in the chest, as well as beaten. There's been a rash of muggings in that area the past few weeks. Treville believes that this was another.”

Porthos took a deep, shuddering breath, and then nodded again. “Thanks,” he muttered, voice thick, and d'Artagnan pulled him in for a brief hug.

Athos watched them pull apart with something that felt all too much like envy; Porthos had embraced him not five minutes before. And yet, he wanted to be held again. Wanted to be held with a fervor that was nearly dizzying; wanted to be taken into someone's arms and soothed and shushed and comforted and-- _Christ._

Aramis was dead.

“Churches,” Athos said.

Porthos fetched a paper and writing supplies, and with Athos as scribe they came up with five churches they'd known Aramis to visit. He added small, inky dots next to two. Then he tore the paper in three pieces, giving himself and Porthos both slips with two names on it, and d'Artagnan the last with only one.

“Splittin' up, then?” Porthos remarked.

“Are you all right with that?”

Porthos gave an affirmative grunt.

“The dotted churches are--” Athos began, then stopped, feeling his voice abandon him. Two sets of eyes turned towards him, and he ignored them carefully. “The dotted churches were his favorites. These are our most likely candidates.”

Porthos worried the paper between him thumb and forefinger, then tucked it away. “Let's get to it, then.”

Athos held up a hand, signaling them to pause. “Something happened you both should know of before we begin. Three nights ago.”

“He was answerin' a summons from the cardinal,” Porthos recalled, frowning.

“The cardinal?” d'Artagnan echoed.

Athos nodded. “We followed his agent to a crypt. It held the tomb of Adele Bessette.”

Porthos swore.

“Mostly before your time,” Athos explained to d'Artagnan. “One of Aramis' mistresses, also mistress to the cardinal. It would seem he murdered her. For choosing Aramis over him.”

“How'd he take it?” Porthos asked.

“Not well, apparently.” All at once standing was proving effortful, and he bent wearily over the table. D'Artagnan laid a hand on his back. “We stayed in the crypt for a few minutes, and when was ready to go, I saw him back to his apartment. I offered to stay and he declined. He seemed all right the next morning.”

“He seemed fine,” d'Artagnan agreed. “Fine as he ever had the past few months.”

“I should have tried again that next night. Too much has happened because I've let him have his space.”

“We've all been lettin' him have his space,” Porthos growled. “This wasn't your fault, Athos.”

“I left him alone when I knew he was grieving.”

“We all--”

“ _You didn't know_!”

D'Artagnan's hand vanished as the boy backed up half a step, giving Athos a bit of space that he vehemently did not desire.

“You didn't know,” he repeated, calmly now. “I did. I knew of Adele's death and left Aramis to his own devices. And he got drunk, and let his guard down.”

“Suppose you're to blame for the muggers, too?”

“Muggers didn't kill Aramis. For God's sake.”

“Then who--” Porthos' face hardened. “You think the cardinal did it.”

“That doesn't make sense,” d'Artagnan protested. “Why show him his lover's tomb and then just-- kill him? It would seem more his style to let Aramis live with the knowledge.”

“He did,” Athos replied. “He gave him one day. He ensured that his final hours on earth were miserable and riddled with guilt.”

The world roared to a violent halt. Porthos and d'Artagnan turned towards him, two sets of eyes filling with tears as they bore into him--

“Fuckin' hell,” Porthos rasped.

D'Artagnan wrapped his arms around himself. “If he were still alive I would fucking kill him,” he growled. Then, after a moment: “so what do we do?”

“We gather as much information as we can.” Athos' voice was steady, which pleased him distantly. “We finish the taverns, and then we visit the churches. The cardinal may be beyond our reach to punish, but if we can discover his lackeys, we can see justice done to them at least.”

The others nodded. Athos suspected that they, much like he, were now functioning solely on the thought of avenging their brother; that in fact their real desire was to fall back into bed and weep, and that their muscles were burning vengeance itself to keep moving as they were.

“We'll see them dead,” d'Artagnan vowed, lifting his chin. “Anyone who had anything to do with Aramis' death. Anyone at all. Even a priest. We'll _run them through_.”

A few furious tears had spilled down the boy's cheeks; Porthos thumped him firmly on the back, and Athos pulled in a breath to steady himself. They would. They'd have revenge.

*

The day had started with grief, but also with a kind of morbid confidence.

It ended with none but grief left.

The taverns yielded no clues; d'Artagnan had no luck at his assigned church either, where the priest could not remember having seen Aramis for weeks. Crestfallen, he joined Athos at his second location. The outcome there was the same, as it had been at Athos' first as well-- and at both of Porthos', the man reported, as he joined them soon after.

D'Artagnan had avenged his father's death on nothing more than a name. And, after a very roundabout sort of adventure, it had turned out to be enough. But they had nothing to work from this time. Not a name, not a face, not even a clear notion of who had perpetrated the crime-- for, as tempting as it was to blame the cardinal, d'Artagnan's faith in this waned as the day wore on. He kept himself from airing his doubts. Instead he shut his ears off to Athos' strategizing, and took a moment to slump against the back of a pew, soaking up the presence of his two remaining brothers.

He focused once more when Porthos' voice replaced Athos'. “Seein' as we're here,” he began, “think we should, eh-- that is, this's where I think he'd've liked the Mass said.”

“He'll be buried in the Musketeer yard,” Athos stated at once. “With his brothers. Don't you think?”

“'course. Ain't sayin' we bury 'im here, jus'-- there should be a proper Mass said.”

After a moment, Athos nodded his consent. “We'll speak to the priest. Then I've thought of our next move. The Red Guards-- the ones that found him. We should speak to them.”

“Agreed. Now-- when d'we do the Mass?”

“We still need to dig the grave,” Athos mused; then, to d'Artagnan's questioning look, responded, “tradition. When a musketeer dies, those closest to him in the regiment prepare the grave.”

“My second in sixth months,” Porthos muttered, and Athos glanced over with a look of near-surprise.

“I realized you'd had a funeral, but-- you dug the hole as well?”

Porthos nodded. “Seemed excessive then. Seems almost like practice now.”

“How long did it take?”

“'bout five hours with both of us going. Three of us, should only be about three.”

“It was autumn then. The ground will be harder now.”

D'Artagnan's hands were shaking, he realized; clearly the two of them were finding peace in details, but it wasn't helping him. He closed his eyes, not sure if he was going to lose his temper or possibly just his composure.

Then Athos' hand found his shoulder; d'Artagnan sucked in a few breaths and opened his eyes.

“We dig tomorrow. Say the Mass the day after that.”

Porthos and d'Artagnan nodded their agreements. “I'll go an' talk to the priest, then?” Porthos offered, and d'Artagnan, realizing that he was being coddled for a moment, gave into it without complaint. Athos squeezed his shoulder, and he leaned against him gratefully. A few moments passed in silent companionship, then Athos sighed a little and cleared his throat.

“D'Artagnan, I won't insult you by implying that you have any less right or duty to be involved than do Porthos or I. But if any of this is too much--”

“Why would it be too much?” d'Artagnan interrupted. He shrugged his shoulder out from Athos' grasp and made himself sit straighter. “Why for me and not for you?”

Athos barely seemed to understand the question. “Well-- your father died so recently.”

“I'm fine!” d'Artagnan yelped-- then, a bit more convincingly, “I'm fine. Eh-- how are you?”

“Fine.”

D'Artagnan actually almost laughed at that. He slapped Athos' back, and when the man let his eyes slip shut at the contact, d'Artagnan contented himself to rub his thumb against the tense muscles there for a minute or two.

Porthos returned quickly. “'sall set,” he announced, rubbing his forehead tiredly. “Mornin' after next, we'll have a service here, then the burial. We needa tell the captain. Who else is there that needs t'know?”

“His family,” Athos replied at once, and d'Artagnan felt a stab in his guts. Aramis' brother and sisters-- he hadn't even thought. “Word won't reach them in time for any of this, naturally. But they must be informed.”

Porthos nodded, then sank down facing them, so that his weight was resting on the back of the next pew up. “Anyone else?”

“I can't think of anyone.”

“Never could tell which of his lovers he wanted keepin' in touch with. Awright. Well, I'll go an' talk to the Red Guards. You go an' see the captain. Pup? Who're you taggin' along with?”

“Well, it seems like you're the one most likely to require backup, doesn't it?” d'Artagnan replied, faking a will to rise that he simply did not feel. They pushed to their feet, and set off.

*

He should have been the one to talk to the Red Guards, Athos knew. To them, Porthos was no more than a cardshark and d'Artagnan no more than a wide-eyed new recruit, defeat of LaBarge notwithstanding. They would not divulge sensitive information under such little duress.

And yet, perhaps it was best. Let them know that they were under suspicion-- or at least their former commander was-- and let it eat at them for a bit. He could follow up later if need be. Besides, he had to admit, he didn't mind the thought of a moment alone with Treville. The captain knew how to act in moderation; he could listen without pressing, soothe without breaking down walls that needed to remain standing.

Perhaps Athos was not entirely in touch with himself. But he knew that he needed at least a modicum of comfort, were he going to make it through the next two days.

The door to his office opened, and Treville waved Athos inside. And indeed, as Athos had known he would, the captain favored him with a supportive grip, just for a moment, before stepping away respectfully.

Athos breathed deeply. The captain's presence alone was a balm, and all at once he felt the weight of Aramis' death pressing down upon him. He let his shoulders droop beneath it.

“We've arranged for a Mass to be said the day after next,” he reported. “Eight o'clock in the morning, so we should be at the cemetery no later than ten. Porthos, d'Artagnan, and I will dig the grave tomorrow.”

Treville nodded. “Have you learned anything of import?”

“No,” Athos admitted, and fought the urge to sag down a little more. “Nobody remembers seeing Aramis at any of the taverns or churches he frequents. To the best of my knowledge, I don't believe he had any lovers in recent months, so there are no leads to follow there. Porthos and d'Artagnan are speaking with the Red Guards who found him.”

“You're doing well.”

“We're finding nothing.”

“And even if you never do, your efforts are a boon to Aramis' memory.”

The world tipped, and Athos shuffled his feet to compensate. “Sit,” Treville ordered, pointing to a chair, and Athos sat.

“I haven't asked how you are, because you are how you need to be for now. But don't think that question isn't coming.” Treville rounded his desk and perched on the front edge of it, regarding Athos steadily. “In the meantime, if you need to answer before I ask, you go ahead and do that.”

“Porthos is not taking it well. Neither is d'Artagnan.”

“Neither are you,” the captain replied, and Athos blinked.

“I didn't expect you to,” Treville continued, voice softening. “In fact, I'd've found it strange if you had. You three earned your name for a reason-- I've barely ever seen you parted these past six years. D'Artagnan too, since he arrived. You'll need time, and you'll have it. When you return after the funeral, I'll see to it that--”

“We may not be finished by then,” Athos interrupted.

“With what?”

“The investigation.”

“Athos,” Treville said, voice hushed, “do you really expect that to go anywhere?”

It was not the question that Athos was prepared for; he sat up straighter, feeling himself frown deeply. “Paris is only so large.”

“Paris is _incredibly_ large,” Treville corrected, “and you've incredibly little to go on. I granted leave so you'd have time to mourn, not to play detective.”

“You thought we would not seek justice?” Athos began to rise.

And then Treville's hands were up, and Athos sank down again in response. “I'm not arguing with you, Athos. Not today. Tell me, is there anything I can do? For any of you?”

“You'll speak at his burial,” Athos replied, after a moment. “Of course.”

“Of course.”

“And you should be the fourth to bear his coffin from the church to the cemetery.”

Treville nodded solemnly. “It would be my honor.”

“Other than that, there are no real preparations to be made. Beyond contacting his family, which I will do--”

“I've already written them.”

Athos' stomach clenched. “What?”

“I wrote them yesterday. Sent the letter off this morning. They'll have it within the week.”

Where the sudden rush of rage came from, Athos did not know; but suddenly he was on his feet, heart pounding. “That was--” Athos gasped out-- “ _my_ duty--”

“I'm-- sorry. I wanted it done as soon as--”

“They should have heard it from me! Me or Porthos!”

“ _Shh_ ,” Treville soothed, leaning closer. “I was his _captain_. No matter what you think, that makes it my task to contact his family.”

“No!” Athos shouted, beginning to shake. “No, it does not! I was his _friend_!”

“Athos,” Treville murmured, closing the final distance and clapping his hands to Athos' shoulders. At the kindly touch, Athos could not withhold a sob. “ _Mon fils_. Aramis' death is not a weight you carry alone. Sit again, and we'll drink to his memory--”

Athos wrenched himself away and fled.

The next morning he gathered three shovels from the garrison and trekked out to the cemetery, each step a dragging limp. Visiting Treville had not eased his nerves at all. Perhaps at this point nothing would.

Porthos joined him shortly, and d'Artagnan minutes thereafter. “You ain't gonna like what we found,” Porthos began, as soon as they were all together. “The men who found him, the two Red Guards, they're away on assignment. Won't be back for weeks.”

“Where is their assignment?”

“Like they'd tell me?” Porthos huffed. “Maybe we're jus'--”

“What?”

“Nothin'.” Porthos rubbed a hand down his face. “Let's get diggin'.”

For a long moment, Athos could not bring himself to move. What were the odds? Could their luck be truly so awful?

The ground was nearly frozen; the sun had not been up long enough to warm it, and their hands ached as the shovels fought to pierce its surface. Underneath the dark brown soil was equally uninviting, unforgiving. They didn't speak, falling into a silent, sympathetic rhythm of three shovels and three sets of slightly labored breathing. Sweat blossomed beneath Athos' clothes.

The hole deepened, widened.

Though he hadn't prayed in-- Christ, in _years_ \-- Athos felt himself sprinkling the growing chasm with silent, tender intentions, lining with affection the space which Aramis would occupy for eternity. Had he known of their kinship? Of course he had, but had he _known_ \-- had he truly felt, with the appropriate magnitude, how deeply and truly they had loved him? It snapped at Athos' heels, the fear that he hadn't. What a lonely way to go, killed by a dead man, haunted by a dead woman, alone in the middle of the Paris night--

Athos removed his glove, wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Athos!” Porthos called. “Your hand!”

Athos glanced down with disinterest at Porthos' shout. A blood blister had formed across his palm and burst, and was smeared now, which must have meant there was blood on his face as well. It was nothing. But then--

d'Artagnan clamped a hand to his mouth, going pale.

Porthos stepped to the boy's side. “You all right?” he prompted.

D'Artagnan nodded, then shook his head. “I just-- shit, I might--” he huffed, fingers still pressed to his lips.

Porthos steadied him carefully from behind. “If you gotta throw up, go ahead. No judgments.”

D'Artagnan spent a moment visibly forcing his stomach to settle. Then he pulled his hand away with a resolute expression. “I'm not vomiting in a graveyard. Of all the disrespectful things. Jesus, I don't know where that even came from. It's not like blood bothers me.”

“You all right now?”

“Yeah,” d'Artagnan replied, sniffing, as Porthos let him go.

“We should finish digging,” Athos said, and replaced his glove.

Before long it became necessary for one of them to climb in and dig from the bottom; Porthos, being the tallest, did so, while Athos continued to work the sides and d'Artagnan tended to the dirt they both were tossing aside haphazardly. It was a cold day. The wind bit at his nose and ears but the effort of digging heated him from within, so that his body felt caught between ice and fire, and the contrast made his head pound.

It took less time than he'd thought-- perhaps less time than Athos wanted. This was, after all, one of the last moments they would share with Aramis, and although his skin burned and his arms ached, he was strangely disappointed when he realized they were finished.

Porthos seemed to be as well. He passed his shovel up to d'Artagnan; then, rather than climb out himself, he leaned against the dark dirt of the grave wall, pressing hands and forehead to it, and went still.

“Porthos,” Athos heard himself prompting, softly.

“'scold,” Porthos replied, voice made dull by the earth around him. “s'really fuckin' cold down here.”

Such innocence, such despair, as there was in that statement brought Athos closer to weeping than he had been yet. He held his breath and looked away.

There was silence for a minute or two. Then: “you're getting dirt on your face,” d'Artagnan called down, and Porthos chuckled weakly.

“Should see your trousers. Now gemme outta this hole.” This was followed by half a minute of grunting, and another burst of tired laughter.

“Athos,” d'Artagnan called. “Could kind of use your help here.” And Athos went to d'Artagnan's side, and even found it in him to smile a little as they strained to heave Porthos back to ground level.

The moment this was done, though, the energy drained away. Athos grabbed Porthos tightly, holding him-- and simultaneously holding himself up against him.

D'Artagnan stepped away, gave them space.

Athos felt lips on his forehead, next to where the blood had smeared; then he felt himself being pushed back upright. Porthos regarded him for a long, fond moment. Then, together, they stared down at the grave, at the hole they'd excavated, at the resting place of their beloved brother.

“We'll fill it in tomorrow?” d'Artagnan wondered, after another short silence.

“No. By tradition, that is a duty shared by every man in the garrison.”

“We weren't the only ones t'lose him,” Porthos added, clapping d'Artagnan on the back as he came to stand beside them. “How're you feelin'?”

“I'm all right. I was only nauseous for a minute or two.” He rubbed his eyes, mindful of the dirt on his hands. “We did all right?”

“We did all right,” Porthos replied, at the same time that Athos sighed, “we did well, d'Artagnan.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to all who are reading, commenting, and kudos-ing. I'll say it again: it feels ridiculously good that this fic is finally seeing the light of day!

The day of the funeral was cloudless, and very, very cold. D'Artagnan bundled his cloak tightly around himself, and huddled close to his friends as they walked for warmth as much as for comfort. The two of them seemed unfazed by the temperature. Porthos' thoughts were clearly half a world away, and Athos' thoughts seemed solely on Porthos-- and on d'Artagnan himself.

D'Artagnan didn't know how to feel about that. He was the add-on, the _one_ in their _three plus one is four_ equation; he should have been the man supporting the other two as they grieved. And it was his intention, honestly. But Athos seemed to have the same idea in mind, and Porthos, though lost in thought, didn't appear to need support beyond a gentle nudge now and then to keep him walking.

They arrived at the church with only a little time left to spare. The church was respectably full of musketeers, as well as a few faces from the surrounding markets and taverns-- and brothels, if d'Artagnan had to guess. He found that oddly cheering. It wasn't nearly enough, however, to keep at bay the sorrow that rose up in him as they approached the closed coffin that lay before the altar.

To his right, Porthos was breathing raggedly. To his left, Athos might not have been breathing at all.

As one, they knelt before it. Such heaviness, such lethargy came upon d'Artagnan as his head was bowed, that for a moment he doubted he'd be able to lift it again. Porthos was praying in soft, scratchy whispers. Out of the corner of his eye, d'Artagnan saw his friend's fingers clutched tightly at the cord of his medallion. Athos was silent and still. His body was steady, untrembling, and when the time came to stand he braced d'Artagnan's ascent with wordless understanding.

Then, nearly tripping as they turned from the coffin, d'Artagnan realized:

He'd forgotten to say goodbye.

Wrapped up in his own misery, latching desperately onto his living friends, he had completely forgotten to say goodbye.

His eyes filled with tears. He should turn, he should go back and try again-- but already they had reached the pews, and the altar seemed half a world away. Ashamed, devastated, d'Artagnan began to slip into the pew.

Then he saw her.

“Constance,” d'Artagnan breathed. The last time he'd seen her-- it felt like lifetimes ago, but he remembered the argument all too well. He hadn't expected to see her. He wasn't even sure how she'd known.

And yet, he realized, he'd done her a discredit with this assumption; of course she'd pay her respects to the man she'd come to know as d'Artagnan had come to know them both-- a man she'd spoken with and laughed with and slapped on more than one occasion. Of course she'd come to farewell Aramis.

And maybe, just a little bit, she'd come to see him too?

“Hello, d'Artagnan,” Constance replied, coming up to stand beside them. “Athos, Porthos. I'm so sorry for your loss. All of you.” She offered up a sad, kind smile; Porthos stepped forward and they wrapped their arms around each other. He patted her back as they pulled apart. Next was Athos' turn; she hugged him just a little bit longer than she had done Porthos, and pressed a kiss to his forehead before letting go.

Constance turned to him last. She raised her eyebrows almost comically, and d'Artagnan laughed, the noise bubbling up from the well of chaotic emotion in his belly. He shrugged. Shaking her head, laughing a little herself, Constance stepped forward and swept him into the tightest embrace he'd ever known. She smelled like he remembered. She _felt_ like he remembered: warm and gentle and soft and tender, and _strong_.

 _Constance_. He's forgotten what it was like, to be held by her-- it was love and safety and passion and more love, and here in this moment it was _comfort_.

The tears spilled then. They soaked into her hair, until she pulled away; then they ran over her fingers as she lifted a hand to his face. “How are you?” she murmured.

“I'm all right.”

“How are they?” D'Artagnan saw now that Athos and Porthos had stepped away.

“They're all right.”

“Is any of that even remotely the truth?”

Constance's thumb smoothed over d'Artagnan's chin as it buckled. “I'm glad you're here,” he whispered, too sad and angry and tired to care that his voice trembled and cracked like a child's. He pressed his mouth against her hand. “That's the truth.”

Constance smiled. “Go and be with the others. I'll be right back there. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then. Go on.”

D'Artagnan lowered his head, as if for benediction, and indeed that was the feeling of Constance's lips on his temple-- a blessing, a bestowing of strength and grace. He could do this. He could carry them through it. And it was this thought that steadied his steps, quickened them too, as he slid into the pew and settled himself beside Athos.

But despite his good intentions, he was not the one to buttress the other two. It was Athos that he and Porthos both found themselves leaning on in the end, sitting between them with a stoic expression and steady breaths that served as a welcome distraction to the sermon that d'Artagnan could not bear to listen to. Athos' hands found their shoulders before too long. And they remained there, until the closing prayers, as Porthos and d'Artagnan slumped ever more heavily inwards, against Athos' sturdy form.

Then Treville stood, motioned to them.

It was time.

The coffin sat heavily on their shoulders, d'Artagnan and Porthos at the front, Athos and Treville at the rear. Labored breaths gave off clouds into the frozen air. The regiment trailed them silently as they processed down the grey cobble streets of Paris, bearing their brother to his final rest.

In the cemetery, the hole they'd created gaped wide and dark. D'Artagnan stared straight ahead, muscles trembling from the weight of the coffin, as a few men rallied around with ropes and, after a few minutes, signaled that everything was in order.

And so Aramis went into the ground.

Relieved of the burden, d'Artagnan felt himself shaking worse than ever as he stepped back from the grave. He, Athos, and Porthos fell into formation at Treville's back. Constance, along with the other civilians, had left them at the cemetery gate; d'Artagnan found himself closing his eyes, remembering her arms, her hands, her lips. Athos nodded at him.

D'Artagnan sucked in a breath.

“Aramis,” the captain began, “was many things to many people. To France he was a solider. To the King, a protector. To enemies, and new recruits, a legendary sharpshooter.”

A crumble of laughter echoed in the crowd. D'Artagnan sniffed. His nose had begun running, not from tears but the cold-- though he doubted anyone would believe him on that count.

“But Aramis was more than a man handy with a musket. He was a man of God. Almost officially. And a medic. Again, almost officially. And what he was to the women of Paris, I shan't say.”

More laughter. At his side, Porthos swayed on his feet.

“To us here, he was a friend. And to some here, a brother. I don't know if it can be said that he was a perfect man; but I don't know if that can be said of anyone. What I do know is that he tried his damnedest, did all things with purpose, and cared for his friends and brothers with an open heart. And I do know that-- he will be missed.”

A wave of hatless heads began to tip before the grave; d'Artagnan watched, feeling oddly detached, and remembered quite belatedly that he should lower his own head too. He'd forgotten.

Apparently he forgot to lift his head as well; some time later, as a shovel was pressed into his hand, he realized he'd been staring at his own boots for so long that the grave was already half filled. Shaking himself from the daze, he stepped forward.

The dirt was drier, lighter than it had been yesterday as he added a few loads of it over what had already been laid down, before passing the shovel along to the next musketeer. It wasn't long before the hole was filled in.

Porthos stepped to the side of the grave as the rest of the men donned their hats and began to depart. Athos went to him. Porthos' head was bowed; Athos tugged off one glove and laid his bare hand at the crown of his scull. They stayed that way, wordlessly, for a long moment.

D'Artagnan waited until it was only the three of them before joining his friends, patted Porthos' back in silent greeting. Porthos raised his head at last and smiled weakly. “Hey,” he murmured.

“Hey,” d'Artagnan replied.

“Here we are. Other side.”

There was a moment of silence; Athos broke it not with words but by wrapping an arm around each of his friends. D'Artagnan shivered under its warmth. Then another arm joined Athos'; Porthos had mirrored his actions, slung an arm around d'Artagnan and Athos in turn. D'Artagnan completed the circle. The three of them huddled against the wind, heads together, and though it seemed to d'Artagnan that each was waiting for another to weep, in the end nobody did.

Porthos pulled away first. He looked at the freshly turned ground, then back up at his friends. “I'd like-- a minute,” he requested, his voice gruff. “Alone, I mean. If that's all right.”

Athos nodded. He pressed a hand to Porthos' chest, then kissed him on the cheek. “Be well,” he murmured. Porthos nodded. Athos glanced down at the grave, then looked away quickly; with no further words, he departed.

Left alone together, d'Artagnan felt Porthos' eyes turn on him. “Sorry t'ask it,” Porthos muttered. “I just-- needa say a few things. 'sthat all right?”

“It's all right on my part,” d'Artagnan replied. “But are you sure you want to be alone?”

“'m sure. See you tomorrow, yeah?”

D'Artagnan didn't move.

“Listen,” Porthos said. “I appreciate the concern, but I'm not gonna join'im down there. 'm not gonna collapse on his grave an' never get back up. I just needa say a few things, an' then I'll head home, an' I'll see you tomorrow at the garrison. All right?”

“All right.”

“C'mere.” D'Artagnan went obediently into Porthos arms and hugged back, just as tightly. “I'll see you tomorrow,” Porthos swore, pulling away. “Go home.”

But as d'Artagnan walked from the cemetery, he found his path taking him not to his own lodgings, but to Porthos' instead. Unlike the other two, he didn't really want time to grieve privately. He'd had enough of that after his father's death, as the only person that Alexandre d'Artagnan had left behind; now this was not the case. Athos and Porthos missed Aramis as badly as he did. If not moreso.

D'Artagnan let himself into Porthos' quarters, reasoning that the worst possible outcome would simply be that Porthos made him leave. It felt a little invasive, being there alone. But this worry faded from his mind as he curled up, exhausted, on Porthos' bed, and fell asleep to the comfort of his friend's familiar quarters.

It was darkening outside when d'Artagnan woke. He sat up a bit guiltily, sure he'd find Porthos ready to tease or scold him. But Porthos wasn't there. D'Artagnan pushed out of bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and tried to reason how long he'd been there for. Three hours, at least. So why hadn't Porthos returned yet?

D'Artagnan waited around a short while longer; Porthos surely had more to say to Aramis than any of them, and he deserved the chance to do so privately. But as the sun faded further from the sky, d'Artagnan began to fidget. Porthos might have joined Athos, who was surely at one tavern or another-- or he might have gone for a drink by himself. It was possible.

But something deep in d'Artagnan's stomach insisted that it was not the case. Drawing his cloak around himself, he set off towards the cemetery once more.

It wasn't a victory, finding Porthos there. For all his suspicions, d'Artagnan would have rather they had not been correct. But sure enough, Porthos was still at Aramis' grave, sitting atop the freshly turned earth with his forehead against his knees.

Feeling almost shy, d'Artagnan crouched down beside him. “Porthos,” he whispered.

There was no reply.

“Come on, Porthos,” d'Artagnan murmured, tugging at his elbow. Still Porthos didn't react. “Porthos,” d'Artagnan repeated, a bit more loudly. “Come on, we should go now.”

“Don't wanna leave'm.”

To hear such a small voice from such a large man was a truly painful thing. “You've been here for hours, and it's cold as anything,” d'Artagnan said, instead of directly replying. “You need to get warm, and you need to eat something.”

“He _hates_ bein' left alone,” Porthos muttered. “Ever since Savoy. It's a thing, y'know-- can't stand it.”

“Porthos--”

“I can't leave'm. I said-- I said-- I'd be the one who never did, y'know? I told'm I'd never--”

“He isn't here,” d'Artagnan said. “We've only buried his body. His soul is with God.”

“D'you really believe that?”

D'Artagnan bit his lip. He _wanted_ to believe that-- he wanted to more than anything. But did he? Truly? “He isn't alone, Porthos,” d'Artagnan soothed. “He's-- he's with his parents. And with his fallen brothers. He's all right now, I swear.”

“Whaddayou think it's like?”

D'Artagnan gave in, sank down to the cold dirt besides Porthos. “Heaven?”

“I s'pose.”

“I don't know.”

“ _Please_.”

“I think it's like-- going home.” D'Artagnan winced at the unoriginality of the answer.

“Home?”

“Yeah. Well, I mean--” d'Artagnan sighed. “You know, as you get older and time passes and you realize-- home isn't really home anymore? Like, you can go home, you can go back to your quarters or your house if you have one, and it's your bed and your things but it isn't-- it isn't home? Not really? And you think back to when you were a child and you realize that getting home wouldn't be about going somewhere so much as somewhere at some other time. Or maybe you've never really known what home feels like. But everybody wants it. Everybody wants to go home. I think it feels like that. His mum and his dad are there. They're with him. He's safe now, Porthos. He's fine.”

“What'f he isn't?” Porthos sniffed, and rubbed his eyes. “D'Artagnan-- what'f he's here? What'f we buried all there was of him?”

D'Artagnan's lungs ached with the effort of not weeping, but he found Porthos' hand and gripped it tightly. “If that's true, then there's nothing left to know you're beside him. Either way, staying here is hurting you and isn't helping him. We're leaving now, Porthos. Come on, get up.”

D'Artagnan hoisted him to his feet and led him from the cemetery with an arm around his waist. Porthos was barely more than dead weight. It took every bit of d'Artagnan's strength-- of his muscles and of his spirit-- to steer Porthos' home despite the man's leaden limbs.

They very nearly made it, too.

They were within a block of his apartment, nearly within sight of his front door, when Porthos _dropped_.

And in an instant, they were both on their knees, and d'Artagnan's arms around Porthos' waist were the only thing keeping him from going head-first onto the cobbles, and Porthos was sobbing and sobbing and sobbing and d'Artagnan could do nothing to withhold the shriek of grief that tore out of his own throat as he pulled them to their feet with the last dregs inside of him, pulled them to their feet and got Porthos home.

*

Morning came, although Porthos pleaded with it not to. He didn't want to face the day.

Then again, he didn't want to face the night either.

Funny, that.

He'd been holding onto some foolish hope that the funeral would help, but when he opened his eyes it was to a swoop of memory stronger and more painful than the morning before. The feeling was so intense that he could barely breathe through it. Porthos struggled upright, gasping, gagging-- and found himself looking across his quarters, right at d'Artagnan.

The boy smiled awkwardly. “Eh, good morning?”

“Mornin',” Porthos replied, and winced. His throat felt full of glass shards, and his voice sounded like the wrong end of a horn.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Porthos admitted, too tired to lie or even be halfway humorous. “Wha' happened yesterday?”

D'Artagnan looked him up and down appraisingly. “You-- had a bit of an episode.”

“C'n you elaborate?”

“You were all right at the funeral. Calm, even. Then you told me and Athos that you'd like some time alone, and you stayed at his grave while the two of us left.”

“I remember that much.”

“Do you remember me coming to get you?”

“Mm. Maybe a li'l bit. But I don't remember gettin' back here.”

“I didn't think you would. I'll tell you about it, if you like.”

Porthos stared a moment before shaking his head; grief, particularly fresh grief, was rarely a pretty thing. He remembered Charon's death. Remembered when the loss had caught up with him a few days later; he had sobbed and shouted and screamed-- literally _screamed_ \-- face pressed to Aramis' chest, hands clutched on Aramis' sleeves.

And that had been for Charon. A dear friend to be sure, but not half as dear as Aramis.

Perhaps it was for the best that he couldn't remember this.

“Guessin' it weren't my most dignified hour,” Porthos mumbled.

“Nah, I wouldn't say so.”

“'m sorry.”

“Don't apologize. This is all-- it's fucked, is what it is. It's fucked.”

Porthos nodded, drawing the blankets up around himself.

D'Artagnan stood and stretched thoroughly, cracking and popping various joints with deliberation. “You didn't sleep on the chair, didya?” Porthos asked, with a wince.

D'Artagnan hummed a _yes_ , and rolled his neck.

“Coulda shared the bed.”

He shrugged. “I took a nap there while you were at the cemetery. If that makes you feel any better.”

Porthos chuckled. The thought of that did make him feel better, actually-- just the slightest bit, though, and in a still-pretty-sad way. “Let yourself in, then?”

“Seems like a good thing I did.”

“Prob'ly woulda slept at his grave if you hadn'ta gotten me.”

“Lost some fingers in the process, I'd wager.”

“What's some fingers when I've lost Aramis?” Porthos blurted, then a wave of dizziness swept over him, forcing him to drop his head into his hands.

“Not sure what kind of a tribute it would be to fuck over your marksmanship.”

“I don't--”

“Don't say you don't care,” d'Artagnan interrupted. “Our lives are not over, Porthos. That may sound cruel but I'm going to remind you of it until you remember for yourself.”

Feeling exposed, even under the blankets, Porthos pulled his pillow into his lap and clutched it tightly. “I know,” he murmured. “Just not sure I believe it.”

“What do you mean?”

Porthos rubbed his fingers across his eyelids. “I feel--” he began, then stuttered to a stop. “I feel this-- _swelling_ inside of me. This thing, and it's pressin' me from the inside out, like I need to scream or somethin'. Scream, or run. And I've been tryin' to figure it out, but it ain't grief inside. It ain't even anger. It's nothin'. It's fillin' me up and pressin' me out of myself but inside of it it's hollow. It's not like losin' anyone I've lost before. Then it was like, I was still me. I was still me an' I was just hurtin' for 'em. But I don't even think I'm me anymore.”

He looked up; d'Artagnan met his eyes and laughed a little, tiredly. “I wish I had something to fucking say to that,” he offered.

Porthos smiled weakly. “Didn't expect you to. D'we have duty today?”

“We're meant to. But I don't think the captain would argue if you need another day.”

“I don't. Do you?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan replied, snorting out another miserable laugh. “But I'll go wherever the two of you are. If that's the garrison, fine.”

Porthos frowned, awash with the sudden stickiness of guilt. “How are you doin'? Haven't even asked.”

D'Artagnan shrugged.

“C'mon. 'sall right.”

A sick little smile pulled at the boy's mouth. “I'm sad. Angry. Furious, really. And I-- I miss my father.” The smile sharpened. “That's really crass, right? Aramis died four days ago and I've been sitting here thinking about how much I-- how much I want my da.” D'Artagnan's hand shook as he raised it to his mouth and worried his knuckles against his lips.

“I don't think that's crass,” Porthos said finally. D'Artagnan sighed, pushed away from the table, and began to pace the room. He picked up a book, put it down again. Picked up a mug, put it down again.

 _Aramis does that,_ Porthos thought, immediately followed by the realization that Aramis did not do anything anymore. His chest tightened. Without meaning to, he replaced his pillow, slid back down beneath the blankets, and curled haplessly on his side.

His toes were cold. His head was aching, his throat was dry, and he wanted to throw up.

Eventually he felt d'Artagnan's eyes settle on him. “Are you getting up?” he drawled.

“In a minute.”

“Do you want to pray?”

He did, in a way, but it sounded awfully effortful.

D'Artagnan took his silence for a negative reply. “Do you want to break something?”

Porthos smiled; again, the offer was tempting but seemed like it would involve some degree of action on his part.

“Shall we just get to the garrison then?”

“What would your da do?” Porthos found himself asking, as he sat up.

D'Artagnan looked up, nearly startled.

Porthos shrugged, but gave no spoken apology. “Never had someone to take me through anythin'. Never needed it, I guess, but-- what would your father do? If he was here, if he was seein' you through this.”

D'Artagnan frowned. “When my mother died, I guess he'd mostly hold me. I was young. I barely understood what it meant for somebody to die.”

“Wha' else?”

“Um-- for the first few weeks I think he just tried to be kind. Make my favorite meals. Let me skip my chores. Then for a while it was the opposite, like he had to be so strict, so disciplined. Trying to show me that life went on, I guess. And I think I hated both. That sounds really ungrateful, I know. He was only trying his best.”

“What would he do now?”

D'Artagnan laughed helplessly, and rubbed his eyes. “I don't know, Porthos. Get me drunk? Drag me to church? Tell me that that's how it goes and that I need to get on with things?”

“What would you want him to do?”

“Christ!” d'Artagnan shouted, throwing his hands up. “Jesus Christ! I'm fucking sorry you never had a father, Porthos, but stop fucking asking me about it! I don't have one anymore either!”

D'Artagnan turned away, and for a moment there was nothing but the echo of his anger and the silent hitch of his shoulders. Porthos buried his head in his hands. By the time he looked up, d'Artagnan had dried his eyes and turned back around.

Porthos opened his mouth, but before he could speak d'Artagnan cut him off. “Let's neither of us apologize, all right? You pissed me off and I hurt your feelings and in the end I think we both did it on purpose.”

Porthos didn't know about that, but he couldn't find the words to argue. D'Artagnan's shoulders sagged. He came to the bed and perched on the far end, facing away.

“I thought I was in love, once. Before Constance. Her name was Pierette, and her family owned the farm to the east of ours.”

“Pierette,” Porthos repeated, liking the sound of it.

“She kissed me by the stream that divided our properties,” d'Artagnan continued. “I thought I was going to marry her. Then one day she told me that she didn't love me. I-- bawled my damn eyes out. For hours. My father made me a bowl of hot stew and carried me to bed and sat outside my bedroom door all night. He didn't hold me, he didn't try to calm me down. He just sort of sat there, humming, letting me know he hadn't gone to sleep. I think that's what I'd like him to do now.”

 _Thank you_ , Porthos thought. But instead of saying this he asked, “he _carried_ you to bed? How old were you?”

“Mm? Eleven. Maybe twelve.” He turned, and they laughed together when their eyes met.

“I'm sorry,” Porthos said.

“I thought we weren't apologizing.”

“No, 'm sorry 'bout Pierette.”

D'Artagnan smiled. “She was taller than I was.”

“'ve always wanted t'sleep with someone taller than me.”

“First of all, we did not _sleep_ together, because we were _eleven._ And second of all, Porthos, there's the problem of you being a fucking giant.”

“Didn't say it'd be easy.” Porthos paused. “I'll get you stew.”

“Will you carry me to bed?” D'Artagnan's eyes were wide, their expression raw with pain beneath the flimsy sheen of humor.

Porthos snorted, ignoring the sting in his own eyes. “I won't, an' neither would your da anymore, because you're also a fuckin' giant.”

“Poor Athos. He's the only short one now.”

Porthos burst into tears.

“Shit-- wait-- shit,” d'Artagnan gasped. Porthos hid his face in his hands and struggled to draw breath through this sudden spate of emotion. The mattress shifted. D'Artagnan had scrambled up the bed and was now taking Porthos into his arms. “Fucking shit,” he huffed, “I'm sorry, that was really-- that was-- shit, Porthos. I don't know why I said that. It wasn't funny. That wasn't funny.”

Porthos wanted to tell him not to worry: that the grief was no further than a pinprick from the surface, that any little thing would have brought it forth, that he'd rather it happened here than out in public. Wanted to tell him, but couldn't. Sobs ripped from his throat with hideous ferocity, and he barely had the wits to remember up from down, let alone speak.

And yet, it seemed he was speaking, before long. He didn't mean to, but at some point d'Artagnan shoved a hand's worth of fingers into his hair and whispered, “I know. I know.”

What was he saying? He could barely understand himself.

“I know, Porthos. I know.”

 _He's gone._ That was it.

_He's_ gone.

“He's gone he's gonehesgonehesgone--”

*

He'd stolen a baby shoe.

Of all the ridiculous mementos to swipe when Marguerite had left the room for a moment to deliver the dauphin to his wetnurse. A _shoe_. A single one, not even a pair, and why did babies even need shoes anyway? It was tiny and white. Its stitches were so fine as to nearly be invisible, and it had probably cost more than a month's worth of musketeer commission.

But it was _his son's_ shoe. And ridiculous as it was, it brought him untold comfort, and so it was one of the few items that Aramis had taken with him. His son's shoe. His mother's handkerchief. His father's Bible. Porthos' spare belt buckle. D'Artagnan's wooden whistle. And a book of poetry that Athos had given him for some long-past birthday.

Besides a change of clothes, these were all that he'd taken with him, all he had with which to soothe himself.

Even Anne's crucifix had been left behind in the captain's care to reinforce the charade. He found himself reaching for it often. He'd taken to wearing Porthos' belt buckle, but the rest of the things stayed safely in his pack, a collection of sentimental odds and ends that were the only connection he had to his old life. To himself.

To the people that he loved, the people who thought him dead.

Aramis heaved a sigh, tidied the thought away to the back of his mind and focused on mending the torn cassock in his lap. He'd anticipated-- _something else_ \-- from life in a monastery. He wasn't entirely sure what wasn't meeting expectations; certainly there was plenty of prayer and silence and contrition. But there was also a lot of _banality_. Of day-to-day goings-on that reminded him, not quite gently, that this was not a vacation or an adventure or even a detour. This was life now. This, here, patching a sleeve for Brother Alard who, despite being a scribe and not a gardener or even a cook, managed to accumulate more damage to his clothes than all the gardeners and cooks combined--

This was life now. Torn cassocks, unanswered prayers, and a pack of useless paraphernalia that he missed, even while going about his menial tasks, a pack whose contents he would lay out tonight, cradle piece by piece to his chest--

This was his world now.

But damn it, it had been the _only way_ \--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled so much with the timing of this reveal! (Though I think a few of you already had your suspicions.) It was literally the opening scene of chapter three until five minutes ago, when I made a kind of gut-feeling judgement to put it in chapter two. Hope it was the right call!


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to express how genuinely surprised and excited by what a response this has gotten. Truly, truly: _thank you_ to all who have read, and especially to those who have left kudos and comments. I spent literally over half a year of my life on this... really glad to see it well-received.
> 
> [chapter tw: vomit, insomnia]

They were late to report. After his tears had ended, Porthos found himself too weak to do anything but sit for a while, head on d'Artagnan' shoulder, hands in d'Artagnan's hands. Their empty stomachs and full bladders roused them eventually. But it was well past ten by the time that they stumbled into the training yard, feeling unprepared and oddly hungover.

Serge had kept breakfast out for them. D'Artagnan heaped two plates with cold ham and cooked apples, and Porthos surprised himself by managing to clear his without too much trouble. The rest of the garrison was keeping their distance.

“Athos isn't here,” d'Artagnan mumbled around a mouthful of food.

“Mm. Prob'ly needed his head in the bucket longer'n usual this mornin'.” At d'Artagnan's look of confusion, Porthos smiled. “Sticks his head in a bucket of water. It's how he sobers up after a bad night. Didn't know that?”

“No.” D'Artagnan frowned. “D'you think he's drowned himself?”

Porthos didn't, not really, but a sudden anxiety began seeping through his veins: if Aramis could lose his life to a gang of common robbers, why couldn't a still-drunk Athos fall asleep with his head underwater?

“I was joking,” d'Artagnan said, when Porthos didn't reply, then sighed. “Maybe I need to stop trying to.”

“Don't fret. Athos is all right. Just needs longer'n usual to make himself decent.” Part of Porthos knew that his words were true, but still he resolved himself to feeling unsettled until Athos joined them. It was a natural symptom of grief, most likely. Aramis was gone and suddenly Porthos wanted Athos and d'Artagnan no farther than arm's reach. “You look at the roster while you were inside?”

“Mm. Minor patrols for the next few days.”

“Fuck that,” Porthos surprised himself by saying. “Let's go to the woods an' find some bandits to kill.” D'Artagnan fixed him with an odd look, and Porthos slumped down over the table. “Sorry. Which route?”

“Temple and Saint Anthoine.”

Porthos was torn, thinking of the quiet northern city limits which the captain had clearly assigned them for some pretty scenery and time to breathe. It was kind of him. But now that he was up and about, Porthos wanted to keep moving, and his desire to get in a fight-- any fight-- had only been half a farce.

The route took them near the Bastille at its easternmost. Perhaps there'd be an escape.

Suddenly exhausted, Porthos crossed his arms on the table and put his head down atop them. D'Artagnan's hand settled on his neck, but the boy said nothing.

“Porthos! D'Artagnan!” Porthos sat up again, to the sight of Athos sprinting towards them from across the yard. He looked as bad as Porthos felt, if not worse. His eyes were encircled with purple bruises of exhaustion, and his scarf, usually so carefully tied, hung limply around his neck. The smell of wine was heavy on him, sharp and sickly.

“We need to talk,” he muttered, once beside them.

“What about?” Porthos prompted.

“Aramis.”

Porthos smiled sadly, and touched a hand to his friend's shoulder. “All right. We'll talk.”

“Not like that,” Athos hissed; he kept his exasperation under control, but only barely. “I don't mean I need to reminisce. We need to talk about him.”

“All right.”

Athos took and deep breath, blew it out, and whispered, “I don't think the cardinal did it. I don't think he's dead at all.”

“Come again?”

“I don't think he's dead, Porthos.”

“The cardinal?” Porthos sputtered, in a last desperate attempt for this not to be happening.

“ _Aramis_ ,” Athos hissed.

Porthos' heart splintered and split a little further open, and through the haze of grief and sympathy he was finding it hard to breathe. “Athos,” he sighed, “ _mon_ _ami_. Have you slept?”

Athos shook his head, but Porthos couldn't tell if he was replying to the question or dismissing it outright. “Listen to me. None of this makes sense.”

“Are you callin' the captain a liar?”

“He's lied before, with good cause. Perhaps there's a deeper motive here-- or perhaps he was simply incorrect.”

Feeling queasy, Porthos pushed to his feet. He swallowed, hard, and forced himself to stay calm as he took Athos by the arm and guided him a few steps away. D'Artagnan obediently gave them their privacy.

“From the beginning,” Porthos directed, once they were apart from the rest of the garrison.

Athos nodded, took a breath. “We need to see inside his coffin.”

“ _What_?”

“We'll look as many places as we can today, but if we can't find him we should do it tomorrow. It _felt_ like a body inside, so there was probably someone else's. We shouldn't wait too long. You understand. Bodies don't keep, even in winter.”

Porthos' stomach lurched at the thought. “We're not-- we aren't--”

“It isn't him in there, Porthos.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it doesn't make sense!” Athos snapped. “We looked everywhere, and nobody saw him? Nobody witnessed anything out of the ordinary?”

“The cardinal's the best at doin' things quiet.”

“But why kill him? Cold-blooded murder was never his style. All he did, he did to gain influence-- Adele's death gave him leverage over Aramis. What does Aramis' death give him?”

“Revenge. Said it yourself.”

“Not enough. That's not enough to explain it. Revenge for revenge's sake? It's extraneous. The cardinal was nothing if not calculating.”

“Yeah, but-- he's dead now, right? So, not bein' around to gain influence anymore, doncha think he could afford a li'l pettiness?”

“Porthos,” Athos interrupted. “There's a set of motivations we aren't considering here: Aramis'.” Porthos' opened his mouth to speak, but before he could speak, Athos continued. “There's something you don't know. But before I take us down that road, I need to be sure. And there's only one way--”

“We are not diggin' up his coffin,” Porthos ground out, unable to look Athos in the face any longer. He pressed a hand to his churning belly. For days now he'd be haunted, _hounded_ , by the knowledge that Aramis was literally fucking _rotting_. The thought of a soul was a bare, hollow comfort. The arms that had embraced him, the fingers that had stitched his wounds, the eyes that had so often caught his own in a moment of mischief-- they were breaking apart now, no more enduring than moulding fruit--

“You can help me dig, and if you don't want to look inside with me, you don't have to.”

“No,” Porthos growled.

Something was deeply wrong inside of him. Something was thrashing.

“I need to know.”

“I--”

“Either way.”

“I'm--” Porthos began again, and felt himself folding; the taste of bile crept up his throat and into his mouth. “'m gonna throw up.”

“I didn't mean to upset you,” Athos huffed. “But we don't have much time--”

Porthos shook his head, stomach beginning to heave. “'m'onna throw up, Ath's,” he bleated. “Please stop.”

“It is upsetting to imagine, but--”

The retch that tore from Porthos halted Athos' words where his own words had not been able to. “Porthos?” Athos murmured.

Porthos bent in two, retched again, and vomited. A gush of ham, apple, and stomach acid splashed before his boots.

“Hey!” It was d'Artagnan's voice. “What did you say to him, Athos?”

“It's all right,” Athos was saying, “it's all right, if you can't come with me.”

Again Porthos thought of opening the coffin, thought of flesh and worms and stench, and threw up a second time. The desperation of his stomach to empty itself was nearly savage.

“ _What did you say to him?_ ”

“D'Artagnan, I don't think Aramis is dead.”

“What? Stop! Why would you say that?” d'Artagnan demanded, and Porthos could see their feet moving in the dirt like some strange, aggressive dance.

Porthos vomited a third time. There was nothing but bile left to bring up, and he hurt all the more because of it.

“Back to it!” And that was Treville, roaring at what could only be the inevitable crowd of onlookers. “Porthos,” he continued, voice quieting, “can you stand up for me, _mon fils_?”

Porthos nodded. He wiped his mouth and forced himself to unbend, grateful for the captain's hand beneath his elbow and grateful as well that the rest of the musketeers had returned to their regular business.

“We're going to my office,” Treville muttered. “Just make it up the stairs for me, then you can sit for a while. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Porthos panted, taking a shaky step forwards. “Sorry, Captain.”

“Nothing to apologize for, son. You've had quite a blow this week.”

Treville's words made it sound as though he'd lost a large bet, or the affection of some young beauty. Porthos chuckled humorlessly. He'd lost his _best friend_.

Quite a blow, indeed.

He leaned into the captain heavily. Vile acid burned his mouth, stung his nose, and made his eyes water-- as if they hadn't been wet already. His throat felt swollen and sticky. Dizziness made it hard to judge where to put his boot down next.

At last they reached Treville's office. Porthos sank gratefully into a chair and tried not to hear the damn clock and its infernal mortality chant. _Tick, tick, tick, tick_ \-- just like the day he'd heard the news. The captain pressed a glass of liquor into his hand, and Porthos gulped it down appreciatively, replacing the burn of bile in his mouth with that of alcohol.

D'Artagnan and Athos joined them, standing behind his chair. Somebody's hand, he wasn't sure whose, found his shoulder, and then Athos leaned down and whispered, “my apologies, Porthos.”

“'s forgiven,” Porthos sighed, patting the hand. When he realized that it was d'Artagnan's, he reached out behind him and grabbed Athos by the sleeve. “Just please, please don't head down that path, Athos.”

Athos said nothing.

There was a thump as Treville deposited himself heavily into his chair. “I'm well aware of what this has to do with, but if you'll be so kind, I'll hear specifically what that was about.”

Porthos opened his mouth, then shut it again. He wanted to respond, but he also wanted Athos to answer for himself. But in the end, it was neither of them that replied.

“Athos thinks that Aramis isn't dead,” d'Artagnan reported. “He wants to dig up his coffin. He suggested it, and Porthos-- disagreed with the notion.”

“Thanks for puttin' it so kindly,” Porthos teased, and d'Artagnan squeezed his shoulder.

Treville's face was blank as a statue's. “Athos?”

Porthos craned his neck around in time to see Athos lift his head haughtily. “I did not suggest that as our first course of action. I think it would be prudent to first search nearby churches, safehouses, the homes of his known mistresses, and so forth. And if this yields nothing, yes, I suggest we disinter the coffin.”

Treville listened to this speech without reaction. When Athos was finished he sighed, ran a hand down his face, and stood. “I identified his body, Athos. Are you saying I got it wrong?”

“I'm saying a mistake might have been made.”

“Because I'm liable to err when faced with a task as grave as that.”

“ _Then why wouldn't you let us see him_?” Athos' calm shattered in an instant.

“There was no need! I hardly thought you'd refuse to take my word for it!”

“I only want to be sure--”

“His face is gone!” Treville shouted, stepping around his desk to face Athos more closely. “Are you satisfied? His _face_ is _gone_. ”

Athos hesitated. “I don't understand.”

“He wasn't shot in the chest!” Treville roared.

“I don't--”

“He was shot in the head.”

For a moment it seemed as though Athos would be dissuaded. Then, in a dangerous voice, he replied, “I know his scars. On his chest and his back.”

“Well enough to be sure?” Treville challenged, leaning in. “Or will you subject yourself to the sight of his corpse and still walk away with doubt in your mind?”

“Did _you_ know his scars well enough to be sure?”

“Athos,” d'Artagnan murmured, and Porthos felt the shuffle behind him as the boy tried to pull Athos to him, and Athos refused.

“I owe it to him--”

“You owe it to him to grieve and get on with your life,” Treville snapped. “I've heard of denial, but this is insanity!” He closed the final distance between them, and Porthos leapt up from the chair, not wanting the conversation to take place over his head.

“Allow me to explain to you what will happen,” Treville hissed. “You will open that coffin and you will see the body of a fit, thirty-year-old man with long dark hair and Spanish skin. You will see nothing where the face should be, and nothing much of a neck or of hands either. You'll peel back the shirt and see the scar on his shoulder, and you'll convince yourself that it's too big or too small or too much to the left or the right. You'll do the same for the one on his stomach, and when you roll him over you'll do the same for the one on his back. You'll have disturbed your dead brother for no good reason and your heart will still convince your mind to disbelieve.”

Athos was trembling now, hands fists at his sides. “I'll know him by his crucifix.”

And then Treville reached into his pocket and produced a familiar gold necklace. “This one?”

Athos opened his mouth, closed his mouth, and fled.

D'Artagnan was on his feet in an instant; he chased after Athos, and Porthos could hear the symphony of twin footsteps pounding down the rickety stairs.

“Porthos!” Porthos pulled back, weary, not wanting to hear anything the captain had to say. Treville came gently to his side. “You should have this,” he murmured, placing the crucifix in Porthos' hand. Porthos blinked down at it dumbly.

“You'll make it through this, Porthos,” Treville soothed, forcing Porthos' fingers to close around the necklace. “Lean on Athos and d'Artagnan. Lean on me.”

Porthos said nothing, but followed his brothers out.

D'Artagnan was overtaking Athos as Porthos thundered down the stairs; they were at the entrance to the yard, and Porthos jogged to meet them. He was debating what to say, but Athos spoke first.

“Let me see it.” His voice was hoarse, low.

Porthos pressed the crucifix into Athos' hand, and looked away as the man held it up for examination. He winced as his gaze passed over the pool of his vomit. Someone had done a hasty job of kicking dirt over it, and Porthos spared a passing thought for what the other musketeers must be thinking of them. More drama from _Les Inséparables_ \-- when was there not?

Athos grunted, and Porthos felt the chain of the crucifix coiling in his hand; glad to have it back, he hung it carefully around his neck.

“It's his,” Athos reported.

“Did you honestly expect it not to be?” D'Artagnan had spoken before Porthos could.

“Still gonna dig 'im up?” Porthos prompted, unable to keep the heat from his voice.

Athos did not meet his eyes. “I don't need to. The captain knew how deeply Aramis treasured that crucifix; he'd surely have buried him with it.”

“You're grabbin' at _nothin_ ', Athos,” Porthos growled, at the same time that d'Artagnan murmured, “you aren't well, Athos. Let us take you home.”

“I don't _want_ to go home,” Athos snapped, ducking away from d'Artagnan's gentle hand.

“Then come on patrol with us. We'll let the horses run. Find a farmcat up a tree we can rescue, and be some child's hero.” D'Artagnan forced a smile.

“Please, Athos,” Porthos added, unashamed to beg. “We need ya.”

“Aramis needs me,” Athos snarled, and left.

*

D'Artagnan watched Athos' retreat silently, and after the man had disappeared from view his eyes still refused to pull away from the empty bit of space. There was just too much to process. His mind had not quite caught up to his ears, and his heart had definitely not caught up with his mind; this left him in a strange sort of limbo, just starting to comprehend what he he heard, bracing for the wave of emotion that hadn't hit yet.

Sighing wearily, he turned towards Porthos, and found Porthos had vanished as well. D'Artagnan scanned the yard for him, confident once again that Porthos didn't really want to be alone-- and somewhat uncaring even if he did. Porthos was nowhere in the yard. There were plenty of places to go from there-- the mess hall, Treville's office, or straight out of the garrison. Instead D'Artagnan headed around back, to the stables.

Porthos was leaning against a support beam, one elbow braced against the wood and the other hand clamped tightly to his mouth. His face crumpled with effort as he swallowed down a gag.

D'Artagnan hurried to his side. “Hey, hey, _shh_ ,” he hushed. “If your body wants it up then let it up, yeah? _No judgments_ , right?” He wasn't really sure if his words had an effect or if Porthos simply couldn't fight it any longer; whatever the reason, Porthos grunted, bent forward, and let go a thin stream of vomit that splattered onto the dirt.

“That's it,” d'Artagnan soothed. He steadied Porthos by the waist as his body heaved again, then again, producing nothing but brandy and bile. “You're all right, _mon ami_ ,” d'Artagnan murmured. “It's just us here, nobody's watching.”

A minute or two later he seemed finished, and d'Artagnan patted his back and passed him a handkerchief. Porthos spat discreetly. Then he accepted the handkerchief, wiping his mouth and blowing his nose with it before stowing it away. “Sorry,” he rumbled. “Christ, I hate throwin' up.”

“Then possibly you shouldn't've had that brandy,” d'Artagnan sniffed. Porthos chuckled weakly and spat again.

“You done for now?” d'Artagnan asked.

“Mm. Think so.”

“It's a bit dramatic, really, two times in one day. Best not make it a habit.”

“Yeah,” Porthos agreed. “Not plannin' to.” Nevertheless, his fingers were fumbling desperately at his belly.

“Are you gonna throw up again?”

He shook his head. “D'Artagnan,” he rasped. “I think-- I think I'm losing my mind.”

It took everything in him not to show how much Porthos' words terrified him; nevertheless d'Artagnan clucked his tongue and replied, “I think you've just lost your stomach, and the best thing for it now is to clean your teeth and get down something other than liquor. Will you let me see you home?”

Porthos nodded. “When did you get to be so smart?” he teased, and shivered as d'Artagnan wrapped an arm around his waist.

“Say that once more time and I really will worry about your mind.”

It began to rain as they made their way to Porthos' apartments; the water ran down their faces and necks, worked its way under their leathers. Once there, they stripped off their boots and outer layers. D'Artagnan found a towel and dried his hair, then went to where Porthos had sat on the bed and did the same for him. The man sat silently through d'Artagnan's ministrations. Once finished, d'Artagnan found some bread in Porthos' cupboard, and drew him a cup of water from a basin by the door.

These he brought to Porthos, pressed into his hands. Porthos shook his head.

“Just try to have a bit,” d'Artagnan insisted. “It'll settle your stomach.”

Porthos frowned down at the bread as though it were the foulest sight he'd ever beheld, and brought it to and from his mouth a few times before managing to take a bite. He chewed a while before swallowing, then took a timid sip of water to help it go down. Another few bites disappeared in the same manner, then Porthos sighed, embarrassed and flustered.

“'sall that's gonna stay down,” he muttered.

“All right,” d'Artagnan replied. He took the bread and water from Porthos, fitting them in one hand, then with his free hand gave Porthos' shoulder a quick squeeze. “Sleep now.”

He didn't want to leave, but neither did he want to rob Porthos of his privacy. He settled at the table, facing away. But when he looked back a few minutes later, Porthos had not changed position, still upright and hunched in on himself.

D'Artagnan stood, crossed half the distance between them. “What's wrong, Porthos?”

Porthos looked on the verge of tears as he crossed his arms protectively against his belly and bowed his head. “Don' feel well,” he murmured, sounding frightened and painfully young. “Feel-- I feel-- really sick, d'Artagnan.”

D'Artagnan winced. “I'm sorry. Eating a bit always make me feel better if I've been vomiting, but that's me. I shouldn't've forced you.”

“I jus'-- I keep thinkin' about-- he's _rottin_ ', d'Artagnan. He's fuckin'--” Porthos broke off, and clapped a hand to his mouth with ominous haste.

“Gonna throw up again?”

Porthos did not reply. D'Artagnan scanned the room rapidly for a receptacle of some sort, but then Porthos pulled the hand away and muttered, “m'ybe not.”

D'Artagnan bit his lip and, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible, asked, “d'you wanna try?”

Porthos shook his head. “Don't think it'd make a difference. I'm all-- tied up inside. 'slike a knot that won't undo. D'n't matter if there's food in me or not. 'll feel sick either way.”

“What--” D'Artagnan paused as his voice cracked, cleared his throat, and tried again. “What can I do, Porthos?”

Porthos blinked up at him, eyes wet and unfocused. “C'n you open the window?”

“It's raining.”

“I know. Wanna hear it.”

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to reply-- but found his voice had utterly deserted him. He stood, went to the window. Once he'd cast it open, he reached out tentatively, turning his palm up and watching the raindrops collect in a little puddle; the rain was cool, but the air itself was warmer than he expected. He wiggled his fingers beneath it. The smell outside had a fledgling hint of spring to it, no longer just the cold blankness of winter.

The wave he'd been waiting for had finally washed over him. Grief and pity and anger and fear swept through his veins, a muddied, ugly contrast to the lovely tranquility of the rain pounding down around them. He felt his face twisting sharply. Perhaps if he went out into the storm, perhaps if he lay down on the flooded cobbles-- perhaps he'd find a moment's peace then.

Instead D'Artagnan pulled his arm in. Almost reverently, he wiped his hand across his face, smearing the rain against his tears, mixing the two.

“Stay w'me.” Porthos' voice was nearly too quiet to be heard over the percussion of water on stone. D'Artagnan turned. Porthos lay on the bed, facing the window; his body curled protectively around his aching stomach, his eyes wide and needy.

D'Artagnan nodded wordlessly. Not bothering to dry his face, he went to the bed, lifted up the blankets, and crawled in facing Porthos. The sudden warmth made him shiver. It was barely past midday, but the clouds had darkened the sky and as soon as d'Artagnan's body touched the mattress, he felt he could sleep clear until dawn tomorrow.

Porthos pressed his forehead to d'Artagnan's shoulder. “It's all right,” d'Artagnan soothed, blinking as new tears streamed onto the pillow, unchecked. “I'm here.”

“Yeah, y'are,” Porthos mumbled. “Thank God, you are.”

“ _Shh_. Go to sleep,” d'Artagnan whispered, seeking out Porthos' hand between their chests and gripping it firmly in his own.

Porthos hummed his consent and closed his eyes. Together they fell asleep to the sounds of rain and two sets of breathing.

*

The night was cold, and wet, and the smell was not the fresh smell of rainwater but the musty stagnancy of lake, or creek. His bootfalls were flattened, squelchy. Porthos shivered as he sloshed up the path to the cemetery; the downpour had all but destroyed the flowers in his hand, and as he trudged forward they wept ruined petals onto the mud.

Porthos did not weep. After days of gushing misery from every orifice, he had nothing left inside. Maybe he never would again. He could not even bring himself to react as he crossed the border into the cemetery, observed the inevitable consequences of the rain: the coffins had surfaced, opened, spilled their inhabitants out onto the earth like fish at market.

The flowers crumpled limply to the ground. With the sides of his boots, Porthos nudged the corpses back into their holes, fighting thick, sludgy soil until at last it accepted them back. He studied each face first. Not with relief, but with a sense of murky loneliness, his kept tally: not Aramis, not Aramis, not Aramis.

And he'd know Aramis. Through layers of battlefield blood he'd recognize the straight nose, the delicate beard; through galling storms he'd squint to see the wiry torso, the bowed-out knees. Blind, he'd know the spiced honey of his voice. Deaf too, he'd know his calloused touch. He'd know his Aramis.

He'd know him, even through the cruelty of decay.

None of these bodies were Aramis.

Porthos threw his head back, laughter stuck thick in his throat-- and saw, at the far edge of the cemetery, a familiar silhouette.

And Porthos knew him. Knew him even as he shrank away from him, even as Aramis lurched slowly, wrong-jointedly closer.

“Oh Christ,” Porthos breathed, rooted to the spot. “Aramis-- Aramis--”

And then Aramis was before him, as though summoned. “Who were you expecting?” he rasped, a perversion of his old grin traipsing across his tattered lips, exposing broken teeth.

“I-- I wanted to--”

“And you've brought me flowers,” Aramis cooed, and then they were in his hand. “Foxglove! Are you joining me, then?”

The little purple bells were new again. Ragged nails caressed the petals, then spindly fingers tucked them into Porthos' jacket.

“Athos says you ain't-- says you ain't--” Porthos stammered.

“ _Cher ami_ ,” Aramis croaked, and the bones of his knuckles grazed Porthos' cheek lovingly. “I am, beyond the shadow of a doubt, very--”

Porthos whimpered.

“--very--”

He screwed his eyes up, trying to keep the word away--

“--dead.”

Porthos opened his eyes. Aramis crumbled, the moist gore of his ruined flesh withering, withdrawing, leaving him no more than a grinning skeleton, and then the bones too were a dust that burst into Porthos' mouth and nose and made him choke and gag--

A hand, warm and solid, reached through the cloud of grit, and touched his face. They were home, now. The room was cool and smelled like thunder; long, familiar fingers dabbed a handkerchief against his cheeks.

“Ar'mis?” Porthos mewled, sagging against the outline beside him. Its warmth seeped into his core, and he moaned.

“ _Shh_ , Porthos. It's all right.”

“Aramis?”

“ _Shh_ , no, it's me,” the figure said. “Blow your nose. That's it.” The handkerchief scratched insistently at his upper lip and, like a child, he did as he was told.

“Wh-where's Aramis?”

“He isn't here, Porthos. But I am. Do you know who I am?”

“Mm-- 'tagnan,” Porthos muttered, understanding this now. But where was Aramis? Where was Aramis?

“You were having a dream, Porthos. Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

“That's all right. No, _shh_ , it's all right.”

“I don't-- I don't--”

“Don't worry. Don't worry, Porthos. Blow your nose, _mon cher_. Come on, I've got you--” And Porthos pitched up against him, not sure if he'd ever truly made it out of the dreamworld-- not sure if he wanted to.

*

Porthos woke with his face still hidden in d'Artagnan's chest, his hands still fisted one apiece in d'Artagnan's hair and sleeve. For a moment he was nearly dizzy with the feeling of wakefulness. In recent memory, in those newly dead hours, he knew that there had been a darkness upon him, but he couldn't remember what it had been. Still the fear lingered. Still the sorrow and the sick horror of _something_ hung heavy in his throat, and in the emptiness of his core.

D'Artagnan was awake as well, holding him dutifully. Porthos shifted away, sat up of his own accord, and cleared what felt like a cup's worth of phlegm from his throat before speaking.

“Last night,” he rasped, then coughed, and tried again. “Can't r'member. Did I, eh--”

“Oh-- I guess, yeah.”

“I threw up again?”

“Oh. No,” d'Artagnan laughed, a little awkwardly. “You just-- you got a bit upset.”

“Always so polite,” Porthos huffed.

“All right. Eh, you woke up bawling your eyes out and didn't know where you were and I've never seen a grown man produce so much snot. Is that better?”

Porthos felt his face heating up, and bowed his head.

“I was teasing you, Porthos,” d'Artagnan murmured. “You asked me to stop being so polite, so I did. But I didn't mean--”

“No. I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to be lookin' after--”

“Stop.” D'Artagnan put his hands up. “Stop right there. Don't fucking apologize to me. It makes me feel like a neighbor whose hammer you borrowed and lost. We're not casual acquaintances, are we?”

“No.”

“Then don't act like we are.”

“All right,” Porthos murmured, a little stunned. “Eh-- can I say thank you? Or does that make you feel like a neighbor who's brought me a pie?”

D'Artagnan chuckled, and in lieu of response pulled Porthos into a hug. Porthos returned it gratefully. He carried that comfort with him as they dressed themselves and headed off to the garrison, drawing continual strength from it as the day progressed

And the day wasn't easy. Athos had yet to return to the garrison, assuaging none of Porthos' anxieties; Treville's response was that the man needed to grieve in his own way, though even the captain looked nervous about it.

D'Artagnan's presence at Porthos' side, to be sure, was a balm. But it was only a temporary remedy, for the moment that they parted for the night, Porthos was alone again, with naught for company but the memory of a corpse's grin.

He was exhausted, body and mind and soul, was simply stripped down to the bare frame of a man by the unalloyed fatigue.

And yet, crawling into bed that night, he found he could not sleep.

Could.

Not.

Sleep.

He flopped ineffectually from side to side for hours, heart crying out for Aramis, fingers reaching out for d'Artagnan, whose absence was nearly as palpable. Eventually, frustrated and abjectly lonely, Porthos slunk out of bed. He pulled a blanket around his shoulders, slumped down against the wall, and waited out the interminable night.

The day after that progressed in much the same fashion, bringing no relief, either. That night, he was so tired that he thought he'd sleep anyway. But the moment he settled in, he was painfully on edge, muscles rigid with tension. It was nearly two full days now, without rest. Images spun through his head, ugly misshapen things that moved all too quickly for him to describe. His eyes burned. But the darkness when he tried to close them was much too dizzying for him to bear, already so nauseated by some strange fever, and in the end Porthos could do no more than huddle against the wall again, clutch at Aramis' crucifix, and hang on til dawn.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [chapter tw: insomnia, alcohol]

At breakfast the next morning, a hand roused him from stupor. “True or false,” d'Artagnan muttered, settling in beside him, “the last time you slept was the last time I saw you sleep.”

“True,” Porthos grunted, too miserable not to admit it.

D'Artagnan frowned deeply. “That was three nights ago, Porthos.”

“Don't needa tell me.”

“You're worrying me.”

“Christ,” Porthos snapped, “'slike you actually 'spect me t'be all right or somethin'!”

D'Artagnan deflated. Porthos let his head fall into his hands, instantly feeling like an abject bastard. “Sorry,” he muttered. His lungs ached too badly to draw a proper breath.

D'Artagnan patted his back. “Already forgiven. Porthos-- eat, please.”

“Feedin' me's becomin' your new favorite hobby.”

“If you want to see it that way. Or maybe I'm just looking after you, and it feels new because it's the first time you've needed it.”

Porthos said nothing.

“Eat,” d'Artagnan insisted. “A sausage, at least. And just-- make it through the day. You'll sleep tonight, I swear.” The boy's eyes were bright, confident. But privately Porthos doubted that he'd ever sleep again.

To make d'Artagnan happy, he took a bite of sausage. The food was like clay, tasteless on his tongue and heavy in his throat, useless matter to a body running off nothing but nerves. But he took another. Make it through the day-- well, Porthos could recognize an order when he heard one. And he could follow it too.

When it was time to go, Porthos holstered his weapons and began the long shuffle home; d'Artagnan, like the pup he was, tagged along almost eagerly. Porthos lacked the energy to do more than blink an acknowledgment. D'Artagnan hardly seemed to mind; he whacked Porthos on the shoulder and kept wordless himself.

In Porthos' apartment, they both striped for bed. Porthos observed his friend for a long moment before finally growling out the obvious question.

“What does it look like I'm doing?” d'Artagnan replied.

“Makin' yourself at home?”

D'Artagnan grinned. “Listen, you don't want to stroke my ego, but the fact of the matter is, the last time you slept is the last time I was here. Clearly I'm the missing piece.”

Porthos was too exhausted to care if he was teasing or not. Figuring that d'Artagnan would do as he pleased in any case, Porthos teetered over to bed; dread swelled, but he lay down anyway, desperate to at least be off his feet.

He'd nearly forgotten the boy's presence when d'Artagnan slipped into bed behind him. Embarrassed as well as frustrated now, as well as anxious and hopeless and heartsick, Porthos closed his eyes-- and lasted seconds at most before forcing them open again. He shot up, shaking.

D'Artagnan's hand found his back, gentle fingers questioning so the voice didn't have to.

“I can't. Can't sleep. Can't close it down.” Porthos' lungs hitched, and an impotent sob caught dryly at the back of his throat.

“You don't have to try,” d'Artagnan soothed. “You'll just make it worse getting angry at yourself. Just-- rest for a few minutes. If you need to get up and move after that, I'll go with you. All right?”

Porthos nodded, too tired to do anything else. Still trembling, he eased himself back down and lay, prone and miserable, while d'Artagnan fitted up against him and rested a hand flat on his chest. He heaved a breath, watched the fingers rise.

“One,” d'Artagnan murmured. He rubbed his thumb against Porthos' sternum.

Porthos frowned.

“Two,” he continued, a moment later, still rubbing. Then, steadily, quietly, soothingly: “three. Four. Five.” He was counting breaths-- not Porthos' but his own, which were slower, more even.

Porthos blinked, captivated.

“Six,” d'Artagnan whispered. “Seven.”

Porthos' breaths slowed to match d'Artagnan's; the tension in his chest eased as his lungs remembered what to do.

“Eight. Nine. Ten.”

Time slowed. The part of Porthos that wanted to panic, thinking about how long it was taking sleep to claim him, was soothed. They hadn't been here long. Only long enough for d'Artagnan to count to ten, and already his mind was drifting-- already, by the time they reached twenty, he was only hearing every other number--

*

Dawn woke d'Artagnan. Instinctively he made to sit up-- and was detained, by the solid warmth that was Porthos, tucked up against his chest and sleeping soundly. D'Artagnan smiled and settled back in. Porthos' face was slack, his cheeks and nose tinged a healthy rose in the rising light that also highlighted his curls. These d'Artagnan ran his fingers through, unable to resist. Porthos huffed and rolled his head ever-so-slightly to the side, but did not rouse; lulled, d'Artagnan closed his eyes and let himself doze again.

The light was brighter when he woke the next time. And though Porthos slept on in perfect contentment, d'Artagnan realized that it wouldn't be long before he was forced to extricate himself, no matter how peaceful Porthos looked. Still he vowed to hold on as long as he could.

He was close to relenting when Porthos roused himself with a sigh, and those deep brown eyes blinked open calmly. “Oh,” he breathed, sounding honestly surprised. “Wh'time 'zit?”

“It must be nearly ten. Can't see a clock from here but the nine-thirty bells were a while ago.”

Porthos frowned as he processed this, rubbing his eyes clumsily and at long last sitting up. “Christ, you must need a piss.”

“I was very deliberately not thinking about it,” d'Artagnan replied as he sprang out of bed, tugging open his flap as he went. “Though truth be told I was going to have to give in soon. Where's the--? Oh.”

Porthos chuckled as d'Artagnan made near-reverent use of the chamberpot, then crawled back into bed beside him. “Did you sleep well?” he asked. “It seems like you slept well.” And it did; Porthos looked worlds better.

“Yeah. Really well,” Porthos replied, blushing lightly.

“Good. You needed it.”

“Christ, did I. But you ain't lettin' me forget this anytime soon, are ya?”

“Forget what? That you literally need to sleep with your arm around something, or that that something is me?”

“You been hangin' around so much lately, I guess I got used to it.”

In fact, d'Artagnan had slept better with company as well. He thought about telling Porthos this but wasn't quite sure how, and so instead reached over and thumped him soundly. Porthos delivered a similar strike in return.

They got themselves dressed and down to the garrison; Porthos, who no longer seemed _exhausted_ but still seemed fairly tired, put his head down on the table while d'Artagnan fetched them breakfast. They ate slowly, neither terribly hungry. But it was a calm moment if not a happy one, and d'Artagnan was willing to be satisfied with that.

Even better was a few minutes later, when Athos slid onto the bench beside Porthos.

Porthos' face lit instantly. “Mornin',” he greeted, voice a bit high, and d'Artagnan grinned and echoed him.

“Good morning,” Athos murmured. He sounded more fatigued even than Porthos had the night before, and d'Artagnan's heart went out to him. Perhaps he was finally about to accept his brothers' comfort.

And for a moment, it seemed that he was; Athos bowed his head, sighed through the nose as Porthos reached over and rubbed his arm. Not ambitious enough to offer food, d'Artagnan fetched a cup of water. He was pleased when Athos drank it all, moreso when he shook his hair back from his eyes and looked up at them both.

But the words that followed cut d'Artagnan deeply.

“I've been following up on my suspicions. At this point I'm fairly convinced.”

“Convinced that Aramis isn't dead,” Porthos clarified, voice heavy, and sighed as Athos nodded.

“I checked the undertaker's records and crossed them with the church's. In this parish, in Aramis' parish, there's been one more death recorded than there has been body buried this month. The names are only given in the church's records, but the ages are in both.”

“Athos--”

“I pieced it together. There was a man, Viteri, listed as a death in the parish records. But the undertaker has no record of his body.”

Porthos bit his lip and said nothing.

“Viteri had no family to miss him. Listen!” Athos cried. Porthos had turned away from him, and he sounded increasingly desperate. “He was thirty-one. He was a builder, so he would have been well muscled. Viteri is a Spanish name. He might have had skin like Aramis'. Enough to convince if we glimpsed the body during the burial, but nothing we'd fall for were we really to see it. Why do you think Treville was so adamant? And isn't it rather convenient that the Red Guards who found him are not around to question?”

“So we're back to diggin' him up, are we?”

“I don't know. If Treville would only admit it--”

“Why would they do this, though?” d'Artagnan prompted. “Why would Aramis fake his death, and why would the captain go along with it?”

“I'm not sure. I--”

“You really aren't well, Athos,” d'Artagnan said calmly, as an angry flush crept over the man's face. “I don't know if I can listen to any more of this.”

“But the weight of his coffin!” Athos protested, leaning in. “Don't you think-- don't you think it was too heavy? Just by a bit? Don't you think it was too heavy to be him?”

“Empty coffins weigh plenty, too.”

Athos pushed to his feet. “I'll do this alone if I have to.”

“Then go! Then dig up our friend, or this poor Viteri bloke. You're missing something in all of this, Athos, and it's something big.”

“Then tell me,” Athos snapped.

“ _If_ you're right. _If_ Aramis isn't dead and _if_ it isn't him in that coffin-- then I'd say, he doesn't want to be found!”

Athos' face fell.

“Let him go,” d'Artagnan pleaded. He got to his feet, went to Athos' side, and clapped a hand to Athos' shoulder. “Let him rest, wherever he is. Come home with us, Athos.”

“I'll get a bottle'a wine,” Porthos added, standing now as well. “It's been too damn long since we've all jus' _sat_ together.”

Athos shrugged off d'Artagnan's hand, and turned on Porthos. “Did you abandon me when I was sentenced to execution? Did we abandon you when you were taken to the Court?” His eyes were wet, were struggling to focus. “I won't abandon him now.”

Porthos growled at the implication. “We ain't _abandonin_ ' him. He's dead. You think you're gonna journey through the Underworld and bargain for his soul or somethin'? Christ, you probably do.”

“And if he's not dead? If he's hiding from us?”

He never should have made that point, d'Artagnan realized; all it had done was throw fuel on Athos' fire. But Porthos answered for him. “Man's dead, Athos. Ashes to ashes. Wanna do your part, say a couple'a _aves_ for'im.”

“Prayers?” Athos sneered. “Forgive me if I find that all a bit passive. Do as you wish. I continue my search.”

He turned away; they stepped in closer. “Do not follow me,”Athos warned. He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw. Porthos took another step-- and the sword slid out, glinting sharply. He raised it towards Porthos' chest, not close enough to threaten but enough to make a point.

“ _Do not_ ,” Athos snarled, “ _follow me_.”

D'Artagnan gripped Porthos' arm, and Porthos gripped his in return; but for the life of them neither knew who was restraining whom. Athos strode from the garrison, sheathing his weapon as he went.

The training yard was quiet in his absence.

D'Artagnan had every intention of comforting Porthos, of moving his hand to Porthos' shoulder and making some sort of confident declaration. Quite the opposite occurred. A moment later, he found Porthos holding him up by the elbows, keeping him from stumbling as his knees trembled violently.

“That went well,” Porthos sighed.

D'Artagnan huffed a slightly panicked laugh and let his head fall forward for a moment, breathing in Porthos' presence. “Who'd've thought it'd be so easy?”

Porthos chuckled. “Hey, if Athos made things easy, he wouldn't be Athos. His brain works 'bout ten times faster than the rest of ours-- an' he won't let nobody help him pick through it.”

“He needs space, is what you're saying.”

“He don't. At all. Made that mistake before. But, if he thinks he needs it-- dunno. Might have to let him have it, for a bit.”

D'Artagnan pulled away from Porthos' supportive grip, though he still stayed close. “How long's a bit?”

“More than a week, pup,” Porthos replied, with a slightly weary stoicism that made d'Artagnan want to argue-- and simultaneously want to crawl into his arms and hide.

“C'mon,” Porthos said, “we've still got patrol. Sure the captain won't keep us on Temple an' Saint Anthoine forever. Might as well enjoy it.”

And, once there, d'Artagnan did, despite everything. Scent was returning to the world, after being kept so long at bay by winter's coldness. The grass smelled like grass again, the trees like trees. The sky was a rich, full blue, and the streaks of clouds swirled through it like cream blending into a custard.

He'd forgotten how much he adored the northern limits of the city. In their quietude, so unlike the bustle of central Paris, he found echoes of Gascony-- a familiarity which was sorely needed now. The ache in him was an open wound. But the stillness of nature crept inside, soothing the ache like a balm, drawing out the infection of grief and doubt.

D'Artagnan slowed his horse. He was drawing breaths deeper and deeper, almost greedily, as he opened himself up to green and blue and white and sunshine--

Tears swelled up in his eyes. He tipped forward, hiding his face in his horse's soft mane, and let them spill. A moment later there was a tap at his boot. D'Artagnan dismounted and went obediently into Porthos' arms, resting his forehead on his friends' shoulder and sobbing against his collar.

It was only a minute before he forced himself to regain control. Pushing away from Porthos' embrace, he sniffled a bit and licked away the tears that had run over his lips.

“Who was that for, then?” Porthos prompted, swiping a thumb across d'Artagnan's cheeks. “Aramis or Athos?”

“I don't know.”

“You all right now?”

“I don't know,” d'Artagnan repeated, with a helpless little laugh. “Look, I'm sorry.”

“What the hell're you sorry 'bout?”

“That.”

“Why're you sorry 'bout cryin'?”

“You know.”

“I _don't_. How many times've I cried t'you by now?”

“s'different.”

“How?”

“Well, you-- I mean-- Aramis-- he-- _h_ _e was your best friend_ ,” d'Artagnan bleated. A shadow passed across his vision, and when it cleared there were fresh tears in his eyes. He swallowed, feeling sick. “He was your best friend. Athos too. You've lost so much more than I have, and it's selfish of me to-- and I shouldn't--”

And then Porthos was holding him once again. “Hey,” he soothed, “hey now, pup.”

“I d'dn't--” d'Artagnan gasped, resisting his arms, “I d'dn't wanna cry in fronna--”

“ _Hey_. Will you shush? Truth be told it was worryin' me that you weren't.”

But he'd cried so much already! He'd been the first, _and_ the second, and the _only_ one to do it at the funeral--

“Hey. No, stop-- whatever you're about t'say, I bet it's gonna be stupid,” Porthos rumbled. Deterred by surprise if not by the words, d'Artagnan said nothing. “I gotcha,” Porthos continued. “Understand that? For God's sake-- _there_ you go,” he hummed, as d'Artagnan slumped against him and let this second wave of tears come freely.

It took longer this time, for his grief to quiet. Porthos combed through his hair with one hand, the other arm supporting him at the waist; d'Artagnan nuzzled against his friend, wanting not even a sliver of space left between them. And yes, he admitted, this was nice. It was nice and he'd needed it and he even thought he might feel a little better now, having blubbered extensively into the sweet-smelling leather of Porthos' jacket.

The tears ebbed of their own accord. Once they had, d'Artagnan sighed, sniffed, and hugged Porthos firmly before taking a small step back.

“Rest a minute?” Porthos rumbled, as d'Artagnan dried his face.

“Wouldn't say no,” he replied, and Porthos smiled.

They made their way to a grove of trees and secured their horses; then Porthos produced a sack of food from one of the saddlebags. The insistence that he wasn't hungry died on d'Artagnan's tongue. Now that he actually stopped to think about it, he found himself ravenous.

“Damn,” Porthos chuckled, as d'Artagnan tore through his half of the meal. “'f I were the horses, I'd fear for my oats.”

D'Artagnan grinned around a mouthful of bread. “Piss off.”

“No, no, it's good. You've lost weight.”

“You're one to talk.”

“Least I had a bit to spare.”

“Not enough to be reckless about it.”

“Eatin' now,” Porthos reported. And then, with an evil grin, reached over and swiped a hunk of d'Artagnan's cheese.

“Hey!” D'Artagnan, in turn, grabbed for Porthos' half-eaten apple.

“Yeah?” Porthos' fingers closed around the heel of d'Artagnan's bread. D'Artagnan considered his options and grabbed the cheese back, given that he genuinely wanted it. He returned the half-eaten apple.

Porthos offered the bread back, politely, and d'Artagnan shook his head. “Don't like the heels.”

Porthos shrugged and continued eating, bread in one hand, apple back in the other. “Route back t'the garrison goes past my favorite bakery,” he commented, with a look of thoughtful mischief.

“Does it now?”

“On my honor.”

“And whatever shall we do with knowledge such as this?”

“Was thinkin' apple pastries, but maybe gingerbread? Or macaroons? 'm not fussy.”

“I know,” d'Artagnan consented. Porthos made a face.

And with twin stabs of pain and relief, d'Artagnan realized: they could go on as two, if necessary.

He and Porthos could go on as two.

*

The next weeks passed with surprising tranquility. It wasn't as though they didn't see Athos; he was around, trying to sway Treville to his cause, acquiescing to brief assignments-- when he found them worthy, d'Artagnan supposed. He would not eat with them, would not spare more than a moment's company. But every glimpse of that familiar face, of those tired blue eyes, soothed d'Artagnan by small degrees, reminding him that Athos was safe at least. They'd get him back.

They'd get him back, and in the meantime, he and Porthos barely left each other alone long enough to shit privately. It was slightly pathetic, perhaps. But it was what they needed, and d'Artagnan wasn't willing to feel ashamed about that.

More nights than not, they still shared a bed. Porthos would curl up close to d'Artagnan's chest and fall asleep with at least one hand, or forehead, making contact. He didn't sleep blissfully, but at least he was sleeping. And on the nights they slept apart-- well, there were never two in a row, so d'Artagnan tried not to concern himself with them.

The tears came still, but were finally dwindling. Porthos wept at least one night in two, but after a moment of d'Artagnan's comfort would dry his eyes and drift off to sleep. D'Artagnan himself succumbed to a few more breakdowns. But the enormity of the grief had lessened slightly, and there were moments-- long moments, consistent moments-- when d'Artagnan thought nothing of those they'd lost.

Not to say it didn't hurt. It did hurt, _terribly_ , both that Aramis was gone and that Athos had apparently decided to go it all alone. But as for himself and Porthos, they were coping. Maybe even edging towards the borderlands of healing.

And then, before d'Artagnan had time to brace himself, one month had passed.

And Porthos disappeared.

D'Artagnan found him slouched in a corner at the second tavern he tried, time and sorrow measured on the table before him not in cups but in full bottles. He was clumsy, half-frantic with grief and alcohol as d'Artagnan led him home.

Nothing that d'Artagnan said made any different, drew him out of his mania by any measure, and so eventually he just stopped trying. He gathered some blankets into a nest on the floor, and settled in for a long night.

*

The night passed only in snippets of time, and though Porthos witnessed the events he seemed to have no part to play in them. He was aware of laughing. Aware of d'Artagnan hauling him sideways and helping him vomit into the chamberpot instead of his own lap. Aware of weeping. Aware of his head on d'Artagnan's shoulder, of d'Artagnan shaking him awake from near-hallucinatory nightmares, though praise be to the Lord and every last one of the saints, he could not recall what the drunken dreams had shown him.

Porthos woke to find himself curled up on the floor. He hurt from head to toe; every fiber of muscle ached and every inch of intestine burned and screamed as it processed the poison. He lifted himself up slowly.

D'Artagnan's face was expressionless as he handed Porthos a cup of water, followed by a damp rag, and then remarked, “Athos makes it seem a bit posh, but I think that comforting yourself with drink may rank among the worst ideas of all time.”

Porthos took of a pull of the water. Within seconds, the need to belch arose; he swallowed it down, fearful that more than just gas would escape him. But he could not keep back the groan. He was dizzy and sick and embarrassed and probably penniless until next payday thanks to the coin he'd wasted on spirits last night.

And Aramis, of course, was still dead.

“Agreed,” he rasped. His throat was wrecked.

“You gonna throw up?”

“Almos' def'nitely,” Porthos grunted. “Bu' I don' think righ' this second.”

D'Artagnan took the water back, then nodded at the rag. “Clean yourself up.”

Porthos knew what the instructions meant, but could not make his arm obey; he sat silent, staring helplessly at the rag fitted limply between his fingers.

“Clean yourself up, Porthos,” d'Artagnan repeated.

“D'Ar-- d'Ar-- whenzit stop?”

“Normal hangover, by midday. This one? Tomorrow, most likely.”

“Whenzit stop hurtin'?” Porthos bleated, hanging his head and fighting not to cry-- not for the sake of dignity so much as not taxing his battered body any further. “I mean-- when--”

And then d'Artagnan was kneeling beside him, taking the rag from his hands and wiping his mouth and beard. “I know what you mean, Porthos,” he sighed. “Don't you-- don't you think it did? Don't you think it was getting better?”

“Maybe better. Di'n't stop.”

“It doesn't stop, _mon ami_.” D'Artagnan paused, pulling the cloth away and catching Porthos' eye. “It doesn't stop hurting. You know that. You'll carry this with you for the rest of your life.”

Porthos whined quietly as the reality of this settled over his bones.

D'Artagnan refolded the rag, exposing a fresh surface. “Close your eyes,” he ordered, and when Porthos did so he began to clean the grit from them. “But it was feeling better,” he continued. “And it'll keep feeling better. One night, a week or two from now, you'll be in bed and you'll realize you haven't even felt like weeping that day. And then soon enough you'll think of something funny he did and be able to laugh at it. You-- kind of went to pieces last night, Porthos. But being in pieces, that's becoming the exception now, and not the rule.”

D'Artagnan was done cleaning. He had taken to pressing the cool rag against Porthos' eyes, and as he spoke tears soaked into it quietly. Porthos sucked in a stuttering breath. He screwed up his face against the pain and held the air in his lungs for as long as he could bear it.

“I'm not going to hug you until you look a bit less nauseous,” d'Artagnan teased, pulling the rag from Porthos' eyes. The familiar face swam into view. “But I give you my word that I will owe you one for later, yeah?”

Porthos exhaled. “Later,” he echoed.

D'Artagnan smiled grimly. “You're coping better than I did, at any rate.”

“W'your da?”

He nodded. “I was so desperate not to feel the pain that I don't think I ever really let myself grieve for him. I mean, here and there, yes. You all helped, more than you probably knew. And-- Constance. She helped. But it seemed like there was never time to just sit down and miss him. I don't think I properly broke down until after the farm was destroyed. I mean, I wept but-- I dunno. Even now I feel like--” D'Artagnan blushed, looking away. “I feel like I still have tears to shed for him. I think maybe if I'd've let myself to begin with, then by now I'd be more at peace with it.”

“You ain't at peace with it?”

“No, I am. Just feels like-- a bone that set wrong. It healed but it's crooked. Maybe that's just the way it always is. Or maybe it's from holding everything back for so long.”

“'m not holdin' anything back, am I?”

D'Artagnan chuckled, abandoning the cloth and using his sleeve to wipe a stray tear from Porthos' cheek. “No, _mon_ _ami_ , I don't think you are. But I think in the end that's wise.”

“Don't feel too wise righ' now.”

“That's the liquor. It's pickled your brains.”

“I thought it'd feel better,” Porthos murmured, aware of how much it sounded like a whine. D'Artagnan nodded patiently.

“I know. I've tried that before and I know you have too. Don't know why we can't get it through our heads that it's useless. Just-- in any case, no more, all right? If you've really such a burning urge to vomit, I'll smother you with the spare training jackets. And the captain's stockings.”

Porthos swallowed wetly and groaned. “Oh Lord, I tasted that. I call mercy. Li'l bit came up.”

D'Artagnan flung his arms up and pushed to his feet. “And with that, I'm off. I'll come by tonight.”

“No, 'm comin'.”

D'Artagnan's eyebrows shot to his hairline. “You are _not_ reporting like this. You can barely keep your head on the right end of your neck.”

“Captain's been kind enough already,” Porthos grunted, making it as far as his knees. “Nobody held a pistol t'my head and made me drink all a'that.”

“Suit yourself,” d'Artagnan shrugged, helping him stagger upright. “Let's just hope we don't have to fight anyone today, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Porthos agreed.

They didn't, luckily; the patrol was quiet and the only disturbance was caused by Porthos himself when he lunged from his horse to be thoroughly sick by the side of the road. But the worst of it subsided after that. By the time they were stabling their horses, the hangover had faded to a muted headache, and Porthos felt that he might actually be able to eat something.

D'Artagnan smirked when he announced this. “All right, then,” he remarked, then came to Porthos' side and wrapped him up in an affectionate embrace. “Didn't forget,” he teased. He pressed a kiss to Porthos' forehead, and Porthos huffed a laugh against his shoulder. It felt so good to be _held_. Felt so good to take a little of the weight from his still-shaky legs and give it over to a friend, even just for a moment. Porthos let his eyes slip shut. Behind his ribs, his heartbeat evened out, and lungs felt able to finally catch their breath.

“All right,” d'Artagnan said at last, “supper.”

In the mess hall, stomach still a bit tender, Porthos worked slowly through a modest bowl of piping hot soup. D'Artagnan rubbed his back encouragingly. The soup was delicious: mushrooms and onions, and a bit of mutton here and there; such a fucking comfort that Porthos could barely keep his eyes open. The last of his aches slipped away.

D'Artagnan tutted quietly as Porthos' hands began to tremble, making it harder and harder to coordinate his spoon. He shoved a final bite of his own meal into his mouth.“Bed,” he ordered, eyebrow quirked.

“Bossy,” Porthos muttered, but stood.

Ambulating properly had become laughably difficult; d'Artagnan's arm slipped around his waist before long, and Porthos let himself be led like a child. Back home, the boy propelled him towards the bed.

Porthos reached beneath the bedframe and withdrew a little box; he'd been avoiding it for weeks now, and, half-mindless with sleep, it finally seemed time.

“What's that?” D'Artagnan settled quietly at the foot of the bed, curling in on himself, eyelids low. The boy had probably slept less than he had, Porthos realized.

“Letters.” He drew them carefully from the box.

“Who from?”

“Different people. Here's my commission, from the captain.”

D'Artagnan reached out to accept the yellowing paper, running a finger down it carefully, skimming over the script.

“This one's from Alice,” Porthos continued.

“Do I get to see that one?” d'Artagnan prompted.

“No.”

They laughed.

D'Artagnan shifted closer on the bed; he reached towards, but did not touch, a bundle of letters held together with twine. The same bundle Porthos had been working up the courage to withdraw. He did so now, brushing a thumb along the surface of the topmost; tiny, inky writing was visible in reverse through the back of the paper.

“Those are from--”

“Mm-hm.”

“Oh.” D'Artagnan's voice was small.

“We never had much of a reason to write,” Porthos mused. “Never apart for that long. But I guess there've been a few times... in any case, I saved every letter he ever wrote me.” He undid the twine, laying the letters out side-by-side. Thirteen. Thirteen letters, for the seven years of friendship that had felt like a lifetime.

He selected one at random, unfolded it slowly.

Aramis leapt out at him from the page.

His script was precise, as even as his needlework, but dark, as though he pressed the quill with fervor. He was rarely so careful as to avoid smudging at least a few lines here and there.

 _Cher ami_ , it began. “I am at a loss for the proper words to explain the severity of my boredom. You and A have been gone nearly two weeks now. I could walk now. Would be perfectly capable of joining you. Physician permitting-- however-- he will not.”

Porthos glanced up at d'Artagnan, who was smiling tiredly. “Broke his leg playin' the fool. Bed-bound for eight weeks while Athos and I were on assignment near Dijon. Look, he's so bored, he's sketched some horses in the extra space. They're _horrible_. Lord, they look like pigs, don't they?”

He chose another.

 _Cher ami._ “Wishing very much that you were here. A wishes as well. Nothing of note occurring. Do hope you've managed to rest. I have kept you in my prayers each night, although A has been firm in his reminders that you were on the mend when we departed.” Porthos smiled, noting to d'Artagnan, “was me got left me behind that time. Nasty flu.”

A few more letters passed in a similar vein-- _cher ami, cher ami, cher ami_ \-- until slowly the fog rolled in once more. Exhausted tears blurred his eyes. D'Artagnan helped him to refold the letters, tie off the twine, and nestle them gently back in the box.

“Porthos?” D'Artagnan's voice was fragile.

“Mm.”

“There's something I've been wanting to ask you.”

“All right.”

“And before I do, I want to say that-- whatever your answer is, it's not going to change anything. You're my brother and you always will be.”

“Go on, then,” Porthos prompted, unafraid.

“Were you and Aramis-- lovers?”

For a moment, Porthos could do nothing but stare; d'Artagnan winced, began to spout apologies: “sorry, sorry, wasn't trying to-- I'm sorry--”

“Don't be,” Porthos insisted, spell breaking, and d'Artagnan blinked up at him mournfully.

“It's none of my business, either way, Porthos. You need sleep. I'm keeping you awake--”

“ _D'Artagnan_.”

“Yes?”

“Don't apologize. You ain't the first to ask. But it's gotta be said that you asked the most kindly.” He sighed, rubbed his face. “The short answer's no. No, we weren't lovers. Aramis has been with men, an' he's not ashamed of it, an' he shouldn't be. But I never have. That's the short answer.”

“What's the long answer?”

“The long answer is-- I've loved my share of women. An' I think about 'em, an' I think-- any of 'em coulda made me happy. Maybe somewhere out there's a woman that still might. But the long answer is, if Aramis asked me to stop lookin'-- to stop everything else I was doing an' leave Paris with him, buy some little farm in some little village somewhere, an' be _his_ \-- I'd do it. Be his friend, or his brother, or his lover-- I'd do it. No second thought. Aramis loves without boundaries. I don't. But I loved him in nearly every way possible, an' if he wanted to lay together, that'd just have been one more.”

D'Artagnan laid a hand on top of his. “I understand,” he murmured, and Porthos felt the approval settle over him like a blanket.

“I think when God put us here, He gave us one person that we had to find. Just one person that we had to meet, otherwise we wouldn't be ourselves. Who we were supposed t'be. It's this person that you spend your whole life lookin' for, an' once you've found 'em-- you're just, more yourself than you were before. You're better. Does that make sense?”

Blinking wetly, d'Artagnan nodded.

“I think for most people, that person's the same one they lay with. But I don't think it needs to be that way. An' I care for you, d'Artagnan, an' I care for Athos-- both of you, more than words could say, but Aramis-- he was that person to me. He was half of myself. An' he's gone. An' I just ain't me without 'im.”

Porthos' voice broke, and took with it the last of his composure; tears spilled over, and poured down his cheeks. D'Artagnan enfolded him at once. He tucked his arms carefully around Porthos' neck, then guided his head to lay against his chest. “It's all right,” he soothed. “Let it out, _mon_ _cher_ , it's all right.”

There came a shock, like the ripple of an earthquake, running between their bodies; then Porthos began to sob, deep and loud and _desolate_.

“I'm with you, Porthos,” d'Artagnan murmured, stroking smoothly through his hair, and Porthos felt no more real, no more a person than the recipient of that gentle touch. “I'm with you, Porthos. I'm with you. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here.”

*

The bottle shattered as it hit the floor. He paid it no mind. Ordered another, bribing the barmaid with an extra coin for her complicity in his continued march towards oblivion.

A month. It had been a month now-- more than a month, and month _and_ a day-- and still no sign. Not the slightest hint. Not the slightest hope that-- that Aramis--

He'd never been able to open the coffin.

A part of him must have known, even then, known who he'd find inside--

The gorge rose hot in his throat, and Athos swallowed it down, loathe to lose a drop. He needed this. He needed the dizziness. Needed the trembling. Needed to feel something that wasn't grief, even if that something was a hollow clanging in his ears and the taste of acid and alcohol mixing sharply on his tongue.

This bottle too disappeared. He'd acquired it only a minute before. He let it break as well, more of a smashing this time than an accidental slip, wondering if any of the shards would find his skin, would draw blood.

One could only hope.

He ordered another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, that concludes the first half of the story. Although I didn't make any sort of official partition, the focus on “just” the boys' grief is over, and a lot changes in the next chapter. (And, without spoiling anything, Athos will be around more in the second half!)


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [chapter tw: alcohol abuse]

D'Artagnan woke to the familiar feeling of Porthos' warmth at his chest. Though they'd fallen asleep awkwardly-- Porthos cradled in his lap and he himself nearly sitting-- at some point during the night they'd managed to work into a more comfortable position, lying face-to-face. Still groggy, d'Artagnan nestled closer.

Porthos huffed a sigh in response. “Morning,” d'Artagnan whispered, not entirely sure if Porthos was actually awake or not. But then, without opening his eyes, Porthos smiled sleepily.

“Mornin',” he murmured, then rolled over and stretched indulgently.

D'Artagnan lifted himself up on his arms and observed his friend in silence; of all the moods he'd been anticipating, in light of last night's events, this lazy contentment was not one of them.

Porthos blinked his eyes open then. He pushed himself up as well, hugged his pillow to his chest, and bumped his head affectionately against d'Artagnan's shoulder.

“Mm-- how are you?” d'Artagnan asked, afraid to break the spell but beginning to let himself hope.

“'m all right,” Porthos replied, with no hint of untruth. “Why'd we wake up s'damn early on our day off?”

“Want to go back to sleep?”

“Nah.” Porthos rubbed his eyes. “I wanna do somethin'. D'you wanna see a play? They're puttin' on _Mélite_. Heard it's funny.”

A play would perhaps not have topped d'Artagnan's list of favorite activities, but _funny_ sounded like a good idea, and anything that Porthos wanted to do, he supported. Porthos could have suggested a swim in the still-frigid river, and he would have acquiesced.

And the play was decent. D'Artagnan managed to keep track of most of the characters most of the time, though if asked to recount the exact plot later he would probably fail. Porthos, however, seemed to adore it. His laughter boomed above the rest of the audience's, and his under-the-breath comments were in many ways funnier than what was actually taking place. They drew snickers and giggles, not just from d'Artagnan, but people nearby as well.

After the play, they called upon their favorite bakery-- a flourishing tradition-- and loaded up on sweets. These, and a bottle of wine, they took out to the north of the city. The sun was warmer than ever now, cloaks barely needed, so d'Artagnan laid his down on the flourishing earth and spread himself out on it with a sigh. Porthos did the same. Then he uncorked the wine and poured a little onto the ground before taking a drink and handing it to d'Artagnan.

“That's better than an _ave_ , I'd say,” d'Artagnan mused. He watched as the ruby liquid ran down blades of grass, seeped into the dirt below.

“Sure as hell what I'd want.”

“If you're going to offer him a cookie, though, not a raspberry one, please.”

“Wouldn't dare. I don't even touch those.”

“You could have one. If you wanted.”

Porthos grinned. “I know you're jus' sayin' that, an' I'll respectfully stick t'the cherry.”

“If you insist. You know, it's really starting to feel like spring.”

“You've been sayin' so for weeks now.”

“No, but--” d'Artagnan chuckled at himself. “It _really_ is.”

“Right, right. Let's have the wine back, eh? An' pass me a cookie.”

D'Artagnan smiled, gave the wine back, and picked out every raspberry cookie in the batch before passing the rest to his friend.

*

Athos was not, and never would be, quite sure of how he survived that night. It could have taken no less than the veritable hand of God.

Aramis, if Aramis were here, would have had something to say to make that seem more plausible-- something along the lines of fingertips touched to Athos' chin and a comment about prodigal sons.

But Aramis was not here. Aramis was not here, and there was no other man capable of convincing Athos that he in any way deserved divine intervention. Aramis was not here. And so Athos could do no more than put it up to indifference coincidence that he had managed to get home, managed to get in the door, managed to abandon consciousness face-down, so that the foul waves of drink he expelled could pool onto the floor rather than run down into his lungs and drown him in his own liquid sin.

Should not have survived that night. Should not have survived it. Should have gone out the way he'd always been meant to, too drunk to feel his own life departing, abject and filthy and friendless.

But he hadn't.

Somehow, he _hadn't_.

Athos' arms shook as he pushed himself up to his knees; he crawled the short span to the wall and collapsed down against it. Alive, alive, _alive_. Eyes shut, he struggled to remember what Aramis' hand on his face would have felt like, what his voice would have sounded like, so soft and serious, as he leaned forward and whispered that _God forgives, God accepts, God loves us all as sinners, Athos_ \--

“ _Aramis_.” The name broke from his lips like an unloaded musket fired, violent and empty. Aramis was not here. Not here to soothe and comfort him, not here to hold and steady him, not here because--

Not here because--

It was only the wine still buzzing through his bloodstream. Only a mind spinning wildly, veering to and then away from its own demise. Only a wish so fervent that it felt nearly solid as it settled an arm around his shoulders and rested its head against his own.

“I didn't want to believe it,” Athos told the ghost. It smiled, nothing but dust in the sunbeams as it pressed a weightless kiss to Athos' cheek. “What do I do now?”

And Aramis told him-- though in truth he already knew.

*

“Damn. Can't avoid this place, even on our day off.”

“I mean, if you'll recall, I do actually live here.”

“Yeah, an' how often d'you _actually_ stay the night in your own quarters?”

D'Artagnan shrugged. “I like yours better.”

Having spent far too much on bakery treats and desirous of a hearty supper, he and Porthos had contented themselves to seek a bowl of stew each from Serge. Now, well provided for, they settled down at a table in the yard and began to eat.

“Oh!” Porthos' sudden outburst a moment later was almost comically surprised. D'Artagnan raised his eyes, expecting to see a loose horse, or a nude musketeer who'd come out worse for a friendly bet.

What he did not expect to see was Athos, standing at the head of their table.

For all they'd worried, for all they'd reassured each other of his return, the actual moment of it was rather straightforward. Porthos pushed himself up with a grunt. He went to Athos' side and, without preamble, pulled him in for a massive embrace, which Athos sunk into bonelessly. They stayed that way a few minutes. D'Artagnan gave them their privacy, left Porthos to the task of rubbing Athos' back, soothing him quietly. Then, when he could wait no longer, he joined them.

D'Artagnan laid a hand on Athos' shoulder in greeting. Athos startled a bit at the touch, pulling away from Porthos-- then fell against d'Artagnan's chest, giving in to a second embrace without hesitation. D'Artagnan hugged him tightly. He smiled up at Porthos, who winked and wrapped his arms around both of them at once.

Athos gave a little sound then, no more than a sigh. But in that moment d'Artagnan was suddenly, painfully aware of how small Athos seemed between them. With no Aramis to stand evenly with, he nearly appeared as a child. Their eldest, their noblest, their _leader_ \-- fit easily between their chests, shorter by half a head at least, moreso as he sagged with sadness and relief. He just did not look well. He was bleary-eyed, pale; seemed weeks removed from a decent meal, and years removed from a decent night's sleep.

Porthos' thoughts must have run the same direction. When they dropped their arms, he bumped Athos' shoulder with his own and said, “here's the plan: eat, sleep, no arguments.”

Athos nodded dutifully and allowed himself to be settled at the table without complaint. He merely sank onto a bench, head propped up on one fist. D'Artagnan settled quietly at his side while Porthos slid his own stew in front of Athos, then went in search of bread and a pitcher of water. He lurked menacingly while Athos got down the broth and some of the bread.

“Water,” Porthos intoned, when it seemed like Athos was about to pull away. “Two more cups a'least. Think we don't know what a hangover looks like on ya?”

Athos' response escaped his mouth as nothing more than a sigh.

“I know,” Porthos replied. “Your stomach's not too keen on you right now. Know why? Because you're _dehydrated_.”

Athos nodded, barely more than a jerk of the chin, and allowed Porthos to pour him another cup of water. He lifted it, put it back down. Then lifted it again, and with the faintest wince of nausea, drank it all.

Up close, Athos was not as uniformly pale as he'd seemed. Rather there were a few spots of high color, at his cheeks and temples, and d'Artagnan tested his forehead for fever with a tentative hand. His skin was cool enough. But d'Artagnan was wholly unprepared for Athos' reaction-- eyes slipping shut, mouth slipping open, breathing in the contact as though it was the first time he'd ever known a kindly touch.

Less than half an hour ago, they'd both embraced him a minute or more apiece. How lonely he must have been this past month, to still be so starved that a gesture as small as this could bring such blissful agony to his face.

D'Artagnan's heart clenched. The only thing he could think to do was check his temperature again, though he'd gotten his answer already-- and so he did, a second and third time, announcing that Athos felt a bit warm in order to bolster the charade.

Porthos' response, naturally, was to force another cup of water at him. Athos drank it obediently, then pushed away at last, one arm slung around his unhappy belly.

“Let's go home,” d'Artagnan murmured.

 _Home_ had become Porthos' apartment, even though d'Artagnan's quarters were closer; Athos didn't seem to mind, though, complacent in walking wherever as long as he was being led. D'Artagnan watched him with a wary eye. It was as though the grief had assaulted him  physically; he was skiddish, on edge, moving as though he just plain fucking _hurt_. At Porthos', Athos collapsed heavily into a chair. His head lolled back, legs stretched out, as though unable to keep his body upright any longer; but despite this looseness, his arms remained firmly wound around his belly. Stomachache, d'Artagnan had assumed initially. But really there was something more to it than that, something nearly feral-- as though Athos were a wounded animal protecting his guts from impending attack.

D'Artagnan and Porthos shared a long look. Finally Porthos sighed and said, “take off your damn boots if you're gonna fall asleep, a'least.”

At first there was no response. Then, with aching slowness, not uncoiling his arms, Athos kicked his boots off and sank back down. After that there was no movement for a while. D'Artagnan and Porthos stripped to shirtsleeves and stocking feet, eyes on Athos at all times, keeping up a silent, nervy dialogue on the wretched condition of their friend.

At last Porthos broke the silence once more. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“Why he keeps us around.”

“What?”

“For all the brilliant conversation! Here I was, thinkin' we was a friendship based on more'n'that. But I'm beginnin' t'think Athos only uses us to practice his verbal sparrin'. How's that make you feel, pup? That we're only worthwhile for our repartee?”

The barest hint of a smile curved Athos' lips. Encouraged, Porthos plopped unceremoniously onto the floor at Athos' feet, and stared up at him. “Course it's give an' take,” he continued. “Can't deny I 'ppreciate his stories just as much.”

“I'm still laughing about the one he told on the walk over,” d'Artagnan agreed. “With the fishmonger and the potter's wheel?”

“Classic. Or the one he told jus' now, 'bout the governess' seventieth birthday?”

“Still, it's all a bit much sometimes.”

“True.”

“Do you ever wish he'd just shut it half a minute?”

“Oh, 's crossed my mind. After all there's only so much a man can take before he deserves a little silence.”

Porthos and d'Artagnan, on the floor by now as well, found themselves glancing at Athos in tandem; worked over, broken down, Athos let his arms slip to the sides and drawled, “fishmonger, d'Artagnan?”

D'Artagnan shrugged. Porthos, on the other hand, could not keep up the act; he reached out for Athos' leg and heaved a sigh. “Missed that voice,” he grunted.

“Mm. Even between us both we can't quite muster that level of poshness.”

“Did you bring me here solely to tease me?” Athos sighed.

“Maybe,” they replied together.

A stronger smile, of quiet fondness, crept onto Athos' face. “I'd expect nothing less,” he muttered.

Then, abruptly, his eyes filled with tears.

D'Artagnan's whole body tensed in response, his heart speeding up like a boat whose sails were just caught. His own grief, and Porthos', had become familiar things to him. But Athos' grief he was unprepared for, and his hand trembled as he reached out to grip his friend's knee.

“You gonna tell us 'bout yesterday?” Porthos prompted, softly.

“Yesterday?”

“Whatever happened that brought you back to us.”

“Yesterday,” Athos began, voice feeble. Then he lifted his head and spat the rest out in his hardest, coldest _Comte de la F_ _è_ _re_ tones: “Yesterday I had far too much to drink in far too short a time and am frankly astonished that I managed to keep my soul within the confines of my body.”

“That bad, eh?” Porthos asked, after a pause.

“Yes,” Athos confirmed. “That bad.”

For a moment, Porthos looked furious; blood seemed to boil close behind his skin. Then his eyes softened, and the rage died away. “Wouldn't take too kindly to buryin' you too, Athos. Not til the three of us're fat an' grey an' we go one by one restin' in some little garden somewhere. Even then I still might be cross.”

Athos was visibly overcome; he sagged, all the _Comte_ gone out of him. “Should have been four of us in your little garden,” he rasped, tears spilling freely.

“Yeah,” Porthos agreed. “It shoulda, eh? Know what'd be worse, though? Cuttin' us down to two.”

Athos sucked in a sudden, shuddering breath. “I didn't want to believe he was dead,” he wheezed. “It seemed so-- unlikely.”

“I know. It'd've been like him, right? Turnin' back up? Fooled us all? He was with us through a lot,” Porthos continued. “An awful lot. But do you know? We were lucky. Lucky t'have him, even if it meant losin' him. Yeah?”

Raw emotion washed over Athos' face. “Yeah.”

“Hey, hey. C'mere,” Porthos rumbled, as a few more tears rolled heavily down Athos' cheeks. Obligingly, Athos moved from the chair to join them on the ground, just at Porthos' side.

Porthos smiled. “Three'a us waterin' the ground as much as we have been, I think we've personally guaranteed the harvest for next year.” Athos' eyes fluttered shut as Porthos brought a hand to his face and wiped it with care. He let out a huff of laughter. But another tear came the moment his cheeks were dry, then another, then another, until Porthos gave up with a patient chuckle and kissed Athos' temple instead.

“Can't stop yet, eh?” Athos shook his head, coloring; Porthos pulled him close. “'sall right,” he soothed. “Li'l extra rain never hurt nothin'-- 'cept maybe grapes, if I understand things right.”

“We're indoors, you know,” Athos remarked, face muffled in Porthos' chest. “Unless there's some new agriculture I'm unaware of?” Then he sniffed loudly. For a few long minutes there was nothing but the sound of quiet weeping, and d'Artagnan combed a hand through Athos' hair as Porthos held him tight.

*

At last Porthos felt a stirring at his chest, and Athos pulled away. His eyes were swollen, his nose a bit runny; all told, when he tried to project a commanding presence, the attempt fell laughably flat.

“Shush,” Porthos soothed, though Athos hadn't yet spoken. “We get it, Athos. D'Artagnan and I lost 'im a month ago. I think in a way you didn't lose 'im til yesterday. You do whatever you needa do to work through that. If that's havin' a cry now an' then, 's pretty reasonable.”

“Porthos has taken to eating a lot more pastries,” d'Artagnan added. “And sort of humming sadly sometimes. And when he's home he keeps a pillow beside him and hugs it a lot.”

Porthos burst out laughing. Did he really? He'd had no idea. “The boy goes for walks in the rain now,” he rebutted. “Stares at the moon. That sorta thing. 'sall a bit pagan, really.”

“It just makes me laugh how much _hungrier_ you've been. It's not just the pastries.”

“'m always hungry. What makes me laugh's how much _hornier_ you've been! Ooglin' every other woman in the market.”

D'Artagnan blushed a furious red. “'m always horny,” he mumbled, rubbing his face. “Sex makes me feel better. And I _don't_ exactly have anyone to help me with that, at the moment!”

“Thank the Lord you've contained yourself when we've been in bed together!”

Athos gave a strangled little gasp at that, and Porthos chuckled. “'sall chaste, I promise. It helps,” he promised, laying a hand on Athos' shoulder. “It helps havin' someone beside you. Always feel better after I've doused his shirtfront good an' proper.”

“He's a fucking spigot when his nose gets going,” d'Artagnan agreed. “The things you learn about a man!”

Now it was Porthos' turn to blush, though he was smiling too; they both were smiling, but between them Athos was shaking his head.

“I--” he began, “I don't want to--”

“ _Shh_ ,” d'Artagnan soothed, and took Athos' hand. “Listen, _mon frère_. I understand. I tried _so_ hard, all right? I tried so hard not to let him see how much I was hurting. I thought, he needs support more than I do. Right? He needs me to be strong. But that isn't how this works. You can't be someone's brother without them being yours too. I made it maybe a week, I think, before I finally let him see me break. But that week was nearly enough to kill me. And once I let him, he's been there for me as much as I needed. We'll be there for you, Athos. As often as you need us. We'll take turns being strong. And we'll take turns being utter fucking wrecks.”

Porthos laughed, then sniffled, as his cheeks began to flood. D'Artagnan's words had brought both of his listeners to tears, although Porthos' were not tears of sorrow so much as of tender affection, of humility at the thought of d'Artagnan's concern for him. He hadn't known. He'd suspected, perhaps-- but the extent to which d'Artagnan had put Porthos before himself, however misguided this had been, filled Porthos with a warmth that he hadn't felt in a month.

Athos' tears were still tears of grief. But that was all right; such tears had to be exhausted before the gentler sort could arrive.

“My turn,” d'Artagnan said easily, and wrapped his arms around Athos' shoulders. He glanced up at Porthos with a knowing grin, and gestured him into the embrace with a jerk of his head. Porthos joined them as d'Artagnan continued to speak. “You'll do this for a few days and then we'll find you your own eccentricity. My da took up needlepoint when _Maman_ died. Big burly farmer making these tiny stitched flowers. Pissed off the seamstress 'cause all the ladies in Lupiac started coming to him to have their collars embroidered.  Hey, _shh_ , it's all right, Athos, we're here. We've got you. We'll get through this.”

A while later, Porthos' legs began to complain; they'd been sitting more or less in a heap, silent and cozy, but it seemed high time to stand up. “Bed,” he announced, glancing over at it with a smile. At this time last night the world had seemed its darkest, and he had curled up on that bed and wept in d'Artagnan's arms, yet again. But tonight they were three. Tonight there was a little more light in the world, for as beaten down as Athos seemed, still he had returned to them.

Athos was staring at it too. “We won't all fit,” he muttered, looking disappointed.

“Damn right we will!” Porthos replied, at the same time as d'Artagnan said, a bit more reasonably, “Porthos and I fit fine. You won't add much bulk.”

“It it ends in terrible embarrassment, you have my word that it shall never be spoken of,” the boy added.

Athos consented to that, silently, and moving as one they pulled themselves to their feet and relocated to the bed. The fit was tight, to be sure. All three were forced to lie on their sides, and there was scant space between them-- but that was all right. All the more reason to latch onto one another. And that they did: Athos' face to Porthos' chest, Porthos' chin to Athos' forehead, d'Artagnan behind Athos, pressed up against him needily.

“How're you feelin'?” Porthos whispered, hooking an arm around Athos' waist.

“Indescribably hungover and still fairly well wishing you hadn't made me eat.”

“Think you're gonna throw up?”

“No. You are safe for now.”

“An' how are you besides all'at?”

Athos' sigh tickled Porthos' collarbone. “Don't ask me just yet, _mon ami_.”

“Fair enough,” Porthos consented, and kissed his hair. “G'night.”

*

It was nearly overwhelming, the feeling of lying in bed alongside another body-- two others, in this case. It had been-- a long time. A damn long time.

Athos closed his eyes; he was exhausted, and hopeful that, warm in the arms of his friends, he might sleep peacefully tonight.

As it was, he could not seem to sleep at all. Thoughts ran circles throughout every corner of his brain; he felt breathless, panicked, only marginally more at ease that he'd felt while alone.

And why should he be soothed? He'd done nothing to deserve the comfort of his friends; instead he had abandoned them at the moment of their greatest collective need. Left them to quiet each other's tears. Left them to explore a world without Aramis-- without both of them-- to learn once more to live when one's world was now smaller by half. Left them to cope--

And they had coped.

He had too.

But the cold truth of the matter was that his coping mechanisms were not as heartwarming as Porthos' sweet tooth and bittersweet songs, nor as harmlessly melancholy as d'Artagnan's walks or skywatchings.

Athos had only one coping mechanism, and it was alcohol.

He had not, not even last night, fallen as low as he'd fallen before. His friends had never seen him at his worst. Porthos had seen him at some painfully low points early on their friendship, and after Anne's return d'Artagnan had seen him at moments nearly as bad. But neither of them had experienced the true nadir. Neither of them had known him in those first months after Anne's apparent execution, when he'd spent days at a time too far gone to remember his own name. When he'd lived for nothing but the release of liquor. When he'd sat stewing in his own shit until the stench made him vomit, and then sat stewing in both because there was no point in rising or washing or caring or breathing.

Would they leave him, if things got so bad again? Maybe not; Porthos was too kind for his own good, and d'Artagnan too loyal.

He didn't deserve it.

He did not deserve it.

And still-- he'd come back. He'd managed to drag himself back. He could still remember, despite the fog of drink, how it had felt that morning, waking from the sleep he should never have awoken from, feeling the ghost of Aramis upon him, urging him to return. To save himself.

To let them save him.

It's what Aramis had wanted. Would have wanted.

Holding his breath, Athos rocked Porthos' chest lightly; when those brown eyes stayed closed, he tried again. At last Porthos awoke. Blinking the sleep away, he took Athos' hand in his and whispered, “awright, Ath?”

“No,” Athos bleated. “Stay awake with me. Please.”

“'course,” Porthos replied, more alert now. He squeezed Athos' fingers tighter, then lifted the knuckles to his mouth and held them there as if he might kiss them. “Wanna tell me what you're thinkin'?”

Athos considered this a long while. “I saw Aramis this morning,” he whispered, at last.

“You saw Aramis.” Porthos lowered their hands.

“I saw him. He kissed my cheek.”

“I don't understand.”

“A vision,” Athos replied. “But of a drunkard or of a dying man, I can't be sure.”

Porthos drew in a shaky breath. “You think you were really that close? T'dyin'?”

Athos could not bring himself to reply.

“Well. What has you so sure it weren't-- y'know? Really him?”

“I don't believe in ghosts, Porthos.”

“Angels neither?”

“Porthos--”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I woke,” Athos whispered. “I had fallen asleep on the floor. I crawled to the wall. Then all at once he was beside me. He put his arm around me, and he kissed my cheek.”

“An' then?”

“I asked him what to do. He told me-- to pick myself up. And go to you.”

“An' that don't sound like Aramis to you?”

Athos shut his eyes against the rising tears. “I rather think the man himself would have been a bit less genteel.”

“Prob'ly figures he's gotta play the part. Guardian angel an' all-- gotta be all refined.”

“I don't actually think it was him, Porthos,” Athos murmured.

“I don't actually care what it was,” Porthos replied smoothly; he was still holding Athos' hand, and he squeezed it once again before letting go. “Long as you came back.”

“I didn't know if I should,” Athos admitted. “I-- I haven't been good to you, Porthos. Nor to d'Artagnan. And I--”

“Hey,” Porthos interrupted. “I know. I get it. You're always takin' care of us. And you're sorry you ain't been 'round to do it lately. You feel like we needed you, and you weren't here-- and that might be true. But there's still time. Christ knows, we ain't all right yet! Plenty'a time left to be here now. 'sides, the truth is, you thought Aramis needed you more. So you was takin' care of him. An' that's all right. That's all right. From your view, that was thing that most needed doin'. He's your brother just as much as we are-- still is. But what you gotta do now is, you gotta let us take care of you. The three of us need'a walk down this road together. You can take care of us, but you gotta let us take care of you. Understand?”

A moment passed in silence. It was the second time that night he'd heard a speech such as this; the first, only dribbles had gotten through.

Now it hit him like a storm-swollen river.

Athos clapped a hand to his mouth and began to sob, vicious and ugly, and so noisy he felt d'Artagnan stir behind him.

“It's all right, Athos,” Porthos soothed. “It's all right, c'mere. Lemme hold you.” And far from troubled, or burdened or annoyed, he seemed almost-- proud?

For the third time that evening, Athos let himself be taken into someone's arms. And within seconds, he felt another set encircle his waist; d'Artagnan was awake, embracing him from behind.

Athos shut his eyes and wept.

He missed Aramis. Missed him so badly that the lack of him stabbed like a knife; he wanted to crawl back into the hole of his own apartment and drink and drink until the loss became a fuzzy half-thing.

But he wouldn't. Not again.

And through the haze of sorrow that hung over him like smoke, Athos found he was a little proud of that as well.

*

He slept, after his tears had ended, and woke to find himself still comfortably crushed between two bodies. Athos sighed, closed his eyes again. The sorrow had not been banished-- neither had the guilt, nor the doubt-- but it had all been tempered, smoothed over-- and Athos found himself unhappy but reasonably at ease.

And possibly a bit sweaty. There were obvious, straightforward disadvantages to sleeping as they had, and when he pointed this out, fanning his face for good measure, he relished the groggy laughter that followed.

Teasing aside, he stayed mostly silent. Porthos and d'Artagnan never let him much further than arm's reach, and showered him with small, easy touches as they went about the morning routine. Athos was content in this. Was content to simply drift along beside them, buoyed by their hands on his back, their fingers in his hair, their shoulders pressed to his shoulders. He breathed, and breathed, and felt no need to speak.

They made their way to the garrison, where Treville summoned them to his office-- only to shake each of their hands in turn. Athos blushed, leaned into Porthos' shoulder. The captain issued orders to inventory the stockroom-- truly the greatest kindness he could have shown. Then he sent them off to breakfast.

On the way to the mess hall, his friends spoke easily; Athos let the noise of it wash over him, not even processing the words until Porthos poked his arm.

“'m fuckin' starvin',” he grouched. “ _Somebody_ interrupted our supper last night.” 

Athos shrugged mutely.

“All those cookies weren't enough?” d'Artagnan challenged.

“Can't've been. I could eat a whole pie.”

“It is-- eight o'clock in the morning!”

“Fight me, pup! I could eat a whole pie!”

“We're not fighting over that! I'm not actually invested in whether or not you can eat an entire pie! Just voicing my doubts.”

Sitting down to breakfast, Athos was surprised and slightly impressed by how much his stomach allowed him to consume. This was a two-day hangover-- how could it not be? Nevertheless he ate the largest meal he'd had in a month: a bowl of sweet porridge, two rolls, some bacon, and a handful of dried fruit that Serge foisted upon him personally. He knew he'd done well when neither of his friends attempted to sneak more onto his plate.

His body tolerated it fairly well, too. In the armory later, he found himself a bit queasy; but, out of eyesight of all save his friends, he sat against a wall for a while and the queasiness passed rapidly.

They finished the inventory, though Athos wasn't sure that Treville expected them to. Pleased, Porthos suggested they bring it to Treville and seek to be sent home early; nobody protested, and so they settled on that plan.

Before they could depart the privacy of the armory, Athos grabbed Porthos' arm. Caught up in the tasks of counting and cleaning weapons, nobody had touched Athos for a while, and he felt it to be sorely overdue. Porthos stopped immediately. Athos leaned into him, nudging his head against his shoulder, giving a bit of his weight over to Porthos' grounded stance. Porthos grinned, hugged him tightly.

Find a coping mechanism, d'Artagnan had said, and he'd found one-- and though it may have been a bit undignified, it was also warm and safe and lovely. And Porthos himself didn't seem to mind. He kept him close for a minute or so, then thumped him soundly and pushed him back onto his own two feet.

He could survive this. If Porthos would only be willing to do that a few times a day for the rest of their lives-- and he probably would be-- then Athos could survive this.

Treville raised an eyebrow at the request to leave so early. Instead, he set them to sparring, and far from disappointed Athos found himself enjoying it greatly. His sword had been dormant far too long. Now he fell easily into the familiar moves, versing Porthos and d'Artagnan, whose styles he knew as well as he knew his own. Hours passed easily. It was dark-- and he was actually _hungry_ again-- by the time that Treville, laughing, called for them to stop.

*

“I think we should visit Aramis' family.”

It had been a week since Athos' return, and it was almost-- _almost_ \-- normal to be breakfasting with him again. Normal, but still entirely wonderful. Enough so that Porthos had taken to eating with an arm around Athos' shoulders, and wasn't sure he'd stop any time soon.

Porthos swallowed a mouthful of porridge and tightened that arm around him. “Could get behind that.”

“The captain wrote them a letter informing them, but--”

“It'd be good for us to pay our respects in person,” Porthos supplied. “We should. Give you a chance to meet 'em, too,” he added, looking at d'Artagnan.

“I don't think I realized that you'd met them.”

“Twice,” Athos replied. “Once, in our fairly early days. And then again when Aramis' mother passed. That was not all too long before your arrival. His brother still lives at their fathers' distillery. And none of his sisters moved terribly far away.”

“I'd like to meet them,” d'Artagnan agreed. “Do you think the captain will let us?”

“Right now, I think he'd let Athos break into the throne room and have a wank on the throne,” Porthos said cheerfully, and Athos groaned in dismay. “Glad as he is to have you back, I mean. Might as well take advantage.”

“Do you think--” D'Artagnan began, then broke off.

“Think what?” Porthos prompted.

“Do you think we could ride back by way of Lupiac? It's only a few hours west from the route we'll probably take anyway--”

“Always forget how close Aramis was to bein' a Gascon himself,” Porthos remarked. “I think it's a great idea.”

Porthos' approval earned, d'Artagnan turned almost shyly towards Athos; when he received a hearty nod, his face lit brightly. “Haven't been back since-- well. You remember. And then, I wasn't-- in the mood to look properly 'round. To enjoy it, y'know?”

Porthos smiled as well. D'Artagnan looked happier than he had in ages, delighted by the thought of a visit home. “Lookin' forward to tryin' summa that Gascon cuisine you're always on about.”

“I've never been to Lupiac,” Athos mused, “but I did enjoy my time in Gascony.”

D'Artagnan raised his eyebrows. “I never knew you'd been there!”

“It seems we may save time in the future if I simply list to you all of the places I have been.”

“Should we ask now?” Porthos wondered, glancing up at Treville's office. 

Athos shrugged. “I don't see why not.”

The mood was almost cheerful as they made their way up the stairs-- timidly so, distantly so, but still it was deeply welcome. United by purpose, instead of by grief. It had been too long.

Treville smiled as they entered; he tamped down on it quickly, but not before they'd seen. He'd missed this too, Porthos realized. He fought the sudden urge to go and hug the captain.

“Gentlemen. What's on your mind?”

Athos stepped forward. “We are requesting a week and a half of leave to ride out to Aramis' village and pay our respects to his brother and sisters. Four days there, four days back, and three days to visit. We'll leave tomorrow, with permission.”

Treville regarded them steadily a moment, then nodded. “I have a counter-offer. The king has specifically requested your presence for the upcoming gala. I-- believe he somewhat misses you. Hold off your departure for a few more days, and I'll grant two and a half weeks. Five days both ways so as not to tax the horses, and a full week to stay and visit.”

They consented to this easily. Spirits as they left the office were higher even than when they'd approached.

Unseen, Treville frowned after them.

*

Evenings at the monastery were, if possible, duller than the days. Only necessary chores warranted the use of candles, and since garment repairs could wait until the morning, Aramis found himself with only two choices: praying by moonlight in the little garden, or praying in darkness in his room.

Almost always, he chose the former.

The moon was nearly full tonight, the sky cloudless, and so it was bright enough to easily count the beads of his rosary-- though it would not have been enough to read by. Aramis shivered beneath the thin blanket. Perhaps he'd be happier here in the summer, once some time had passed, one some life had flowed back into the melancholy space. Perhaps.

He finished a decade and did not begin the next, telling himself that he should meditate on its Mystery first, but in reality letting his mind wander aimlessly. He was tired, which was a pleasant surprise. Many days here, he'd found himself so bored that it was as if he hadn't earned the desire for sleep. Perhaps he'd finish the prayers in bed after all. It would be warmer, at least.

It was then that he heard the footsteps-- the sound of soldier's boots, he'd never forget-- and Aramis turned and recognized, with no small shock, Captain Treville.

Aramis was hugging him before he could tell himself not to.

Treville patted his back patiently; Aramis let himself enjoy the touch for a long moment, before stepping back and readjusting the blanket around himself.

“Aramis,” Treville greeted. “I come with news.”

“Well, I didn't imagine it was just because you missed me,” Aramis agreed, though of course he'd held out a little hope for this. Now, though, his brain began to process the full implications, and he realized: something was wrong. Something was pretty seriously wrong, if it warranted a visit like this.

But no suspicions could have prepared him for the words that would come next. Treville rubbed his face and sighed tiredly before he spoke.

“Porthos is dying.”

Aramis' stomach dropped away. “What did you say?”

“Exactly what you thought I said,” Treville sneered, his entire demeanor souring with the impatience of grief. “Porthos is dying. He may have died already in the time it took me to ride out.”

“Wha--” Suddenly his mouth was too dry to form the shapes of speech; Aramis licked his lips and tried again. “What happened?”

“Took a ball to the chest protecting the king and queen. A surgeon has seen to him and says there is nothing to be done for it.”

“Have they tried--” Aramis began, then stopped. He was not a physician; he had never been a physician; and to act as one was the same breed of arrogance that led him down this path in the first place. Led him away from his friends, whom he'd betrayed even in absentia. “Oh, _God_ ,” he murmured, clutching at the beads still in his hand.

He didn't realize how violently he'd swayed until Treville reached out to steady him, and the blur of vertigo settled into the mere blur of tears. “Thank you for telling me,” Aramis choked out. “I shall pray for him. Now go and be with him.”

“He doesn't want me, damn it!” Treville rasped. And Aramis realized what was coming half a moment before it came. Treville gripped his arm tightly. “Aramis, in his fever, he's forgotten of your death. He's calling for you. Weeping for you. He doesn't understand why you aren't with him.” Aramis bit his lip to keep from crying out as Treville tightened his hold.

“If you _ever_ ,” Treville hissed, “called that man your brother-- if you _ever_ loved him-- you will return now, Aramis. You will hold his hand as he dies.”

Aramis' head spun sickeningly; he wrapped the blanket tighter around his body as his stomach threatened to overturn. “I can't.”

Fire flared in Treville's eyes. “This is your last chance to make things right.”

“What I've done will never be right!” Aramis snarled.

And then Treville loosened his hand, and began to rub Aramis' arm. “Then this is your last chance to make things better,” he amended. “Athos and d'Artagnan will have time to come to terms with it. And Porthos-- he just wants to see you. He just wants his best friend with him in his last days.”

Aramis' breath caught, and a tear ran down his cheek.

“Will you come, Aramis?” Treville asked.

“Yes.” Aramis wiped his eyes before any new tears could follow. “Yes.”

*

It was the trip he thought never to take again; back to Paris, back to Porthos and Athos and d'Artagnan, and the garrison and Serge and--

No. This was not a joyous homecoming; this was a deathbed visit. Funny how this thought could, in turn, first overwhelm and then utterly escape Aramis' mind.

He was going to see Porthos again.

He was going to see Porthos, to say goodbye.

It was an unequaled cruelty that they were being given the opportunity to replace one supposedly final meeting with another, inarguably final one.

He was going to watch Porthos die.

At least he'd had the courtesy to keep his own death off-stage.

By the light of the night sky, they rode well past midnight, stopping only for a few hours between moonset and sunrise, and even then only at Treville's insistence. Aramis did not sleep. He sat with his head on his knees, stomach in knots, heart pounding with exhaustion and sorrow, and the overwhelming fear that they would not reach Porthos in time.

The sun was rising as they made it back to Paris. Treville kept up as Aramis spurred his horse for this last short distance, then obligingly took the reigns as they stopped before the stables, leaving Aramis to dash towards the training yard alone.

It was deserted, except for Athos, sitting at one of the tables to the side.

Aramis realized almost immediately that something was wrong-- or rather, not wrong. Athos was sitting alone, yes. But he looked only as preoccupied as usual, picking idly at a plate of sausages and sipping from a mug of something that steamed in the cold air.

Athos would not be outside eating if Porthos were truly at death's door. He would not have left his side for an instant.

And if Porthos were dead--

Aramis wasn't quite sure what that would look like, but he was nearly positive it wouldn't look like this. Athos was calm. He was nothing more than a man, sitting alone with his breakfast, waiting for his day to begin.

And Aramis was captivated, absolutely enraptured by the once-familiar visage. Athos sighed, rubbed his eyes, took a bite of sausage; he chewed for a bit, had a sip of his drink, and stared pensively into the grey morning. A moment later he sneezed. Aramis watched him draw his handkerchief from his pocket and blow his nose as if it he were a master musician, and his little quotidian movements a veritable symphony.

Christ, this was pathetic. He'd missed Athos so much that he was appreciating the way in which he rid himself of snot. But the longer he watched Athos, the longer he felt at home. And the longer he watched Athos, he also came to understand that somehow, everything was not as bad as he had feared--

This was confirmed a moment later, by the arrival of Porthos himself.

Aramis gasped.

Porthos was _alive._ Was whole and unharmed. Was smiling sleepily, hugging Athos in greeting and coaxing him into eating more breakfast, as he settled comfortably at his side. _Porthos_. His curls and his scar and his stupidly ornate jacket.

Aramis had never thought to see that face again; he clutched at his chest as his heart ground out a painful rhythm of relief and gratitude, and _agony_. 

Because in the end, Porthos might be living, but Aramis himself was not.

The realization of betrayal settled cold over Aramis' skin; Treville had acted as he thought best, but wrongly, to be sure. It was time to go. Aramis granted himself one last glimpse-- at Porthos, at Athos, at the training yard and the captain's balcony and the mess area, warm and familiar-- and then forced himself to look away.

Eyes to the ground, heart in his stomach, Aramis turned.

Turned--

And ran straight into d'Artagnan.

To the boy's credit, there was no moment of disbelief. Aramis was sure that if the roles were reversed, he himself would have spent at least a few seconds terrified, succumbing to superstition, flinching away from the ghost before him. But d'Artagnan did no such thing. There was simply a expression of confusion, then of pain, then finally of resignation.

“You had better,” he rasped, “have a really, _really_ good explanation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say less angst? I meant still 85% angst and then a final burst of plot. Oops.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really should have budgeted myself and updated this much more slowly, given that none of the other fics I'm writing are even halfway ready to post...
> 
> That being said, I'm sick in bed and generally unhappy right now, so I thought posting another chapter might cheer me up. Oh well :)

Aramis gaped at d'Artagnan for a long and useless moment, before all at once his brain shut off and his heart took over. He launched himself at the boy, gripping him desperately. “ _D'Artagnan_ ,” he bawled, pressing his face into d'Artagnan's chest. For that brief moment, he thought nothing of what must happen next. His mind was absorbed with the presence of a friend-- but d'Artagnan, after tolerating this for a few seconds, wrenched away.

“What the hell, Aramis?” he demanded, eyes blazing. His fury was so wonderfully familiar that Aramis could almost ignore the fact that it was being levied at him.

But he could not ignore it much longer.

D'Artagnan's hands seized his shoulders roughly, and Aramis found himself marched through the entrance to the yard. Seconds later, he was shoved before table.

Porthos leapt to his feet so suddenly that he upset his bowl; pale porridge splattered the dirt. Athos seemed frozen in place.

Nobody moved.

“I don't--” Porthos croaked. “I don't understand.”

“ _Aramis_ ,” Athos breathed.

The sunrise set alight the mist in the cold air, turning the edges of his vision into silver and diamonds. “Porthos,” Aramis whispered, reaching out a trembling hand. “Porthos. Athos. Oh, God.”

“I don't understand,” Porthos repeated. “D'Artagnan, what's goin' on?”

“No idea. Just found him by the entrance. I mean, literally, I just found him.”

Porthos was shaking his head almost spasmodically. Athos had not moved a muscle, but tears had gathered along the rims of his eyes.

“Well, if no one else will say it, I will!” D'Artagnan howled. “Aramis! What. The. _Fuck_!”

“I--” Aramis stammered. He tried to concentrate, knowing these words would be remembered, but all he could think about was rounding the table and taking Porthos in his arms.

“ _I_ , _I_ ,” d'Artagnan mocked. “Speak up, you son of a bitch! Where the fuck have you been? What the fuck was this about?”

“I-- the-- the cardinal threatened me.”

“The cardinal threatened you? The cardinal who's _dead_?”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“So where the fuck were you?”

“A monastery,” Aramis mumbled. “Half a day west of here--”

“A monastery!” d'Artagnan scoffed. “Oh good, he was at a monastery. Do you”-- at this he pushed a little closer, and locked with Aramis' eyes-- “do you have any idea? What we've _been through_?”

“I don't--”

“We thought you were dead! We buried you! You complete _fucking_ _arse_!”

“It was for the best-- ”

“For the best?” d'Artagnan roared. “ _For the best_? Do you know how many times I'd seen Porthos weep before last month? I hadn't! Do you know how many times I've seen it now? I've lost count!” D'Artagnan's cheeks were flushed, chest heaving.

Aramis waited for Porthos to laugh that off, or to own up to it sheepishly. What he didn't expect was that Porthos would hang his head in furious shame, would glare daggers at the ground and stay silent while d'Artagnan defended him.

“I didn't do this to hurt anyone,” Aramis insisted. He spoke to them all, but to Porthos especially. “I was trying to keep you _safe_.”

“Well done,” d'Artagnan sneered. “Nothing quite like digging his best friend's grave to give a man a sense of security.”

Porthos gave a noise then, just a wordless mumble; d'Artagnan went to him and cast an arm around his back protectively. A flare of jealous anger spiked in Aramis' brain. Since when was he somebody that Porthos needed to be _protected_ from?

“Are you--” he began. “Porthos, are you all right?”

“What do you think?” d'Artagnan sneered, pulling Porthos closer.

“I missed you,” Aramis choked out. “I took your spare belt buckle. I wear it every day.”

“He's touched.”

“Christ!” Aramis spat, his own anger catching. “At least have the decency to speak to me without an interpreter!”

It was a request that Aramis instantly regretted. Porthos leveled a steady gaze at him, meeting his eyes defiantly. “Awright. Go to hell, Aramis,” he rasped, then fled the yard.

There was silence for a moment. Then d'Artagnan sprinted after him. Aramis sunk onto the bench and buried his head in his hands.

“Aramis.”

Aramis looked up. Athos had come to his side; he observed him impassively as Aramis choked down the noises of grief rising up from his belly. “At least tell me _you're_ glad to see me,” Aramis huffed. He wasn't sure if he meant it to sound sarcastic, or angry; in the end, it sounded pathetic.

Athos settled beside him. Despite himself, Aramis flinched; the last month had been so damn _lonely_ and this just _wasn't_ how he'd pictured this reunion-- the image in his mind, the fantasy he'd fallen asleep to more nights than not, had had an awful lot more hugs and laughs and declarations of brotherhood-- instead Porthos hated him and d'Artagnan had sided against him and now Athos was going to admonish him as well--

And then Aramis found himself folded neatly into Athos' arms. Athos pressed him to his chest like a precious thing, and Aramis could not help the feeble sob that escaped him. “ _Athos_ ,” he bleated.

When Athos replied, his voice was nearly as hoarse as Aramis' own. “I am glad to see you,” he murmured.

*

“Porthos! Porthos, wait!”

D'Artagnan caught up to the man halfway down the block; Porthos halted but did not turn to face him.

“I--” d'Artagnan began, and then realized he had nothing to say. “Where are you going?”

“Dunno.”

“I'm coming with you.”

“No.”

“Please, Porthos. You don't have to be--”

“D'Artagnan,” Porthos hissed. D'Artagnan looked at him-- really looked at him-- for the first time, and saw twitching muscles, clenching fists, and a wildness in his eyes.

“Porthos.”

Laughter bubbled up from Porthos' throat, and he flicked his fingers out rapidly, like the twirling skirts of a waltzing woman. He bounced on the balls of his feet.

“Go,” d'Artagnan told him. “If you have to go, go.”

Porthos went.

D'Artagnan wandered the streets for a while, doing all he could to keep the thoughts at bay. He just couldn't process this now. His mind begged piteously for a few hours' reprieve-- so he gave in, blocked out all but the most mundane goings-on of Paris. He chatted with the cobbler, browsed in a bookstore, bought and ate a small piece of hard cheese. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, he found himself headed instinctively for Constance's house; she needed to be told, after all, but as his entire goal was currently to avoid the issue, he headed back to his quarters instead.

He intended to borrow Serge's broom, get a bit of cleaning done. This plan changed in an instant, as he opened to door to find Porthos cross-legged on the bed, pillow held tight to his chest.

“Hey,” d'Artagnan greeted, slipping the door shut behind him.

“Hey,” Porthos whispered; his voice snagged even on that short sound, rasping like wind over broken stones.

“How are you feeling?”

Porthos shrugged, without looking up at him.

D'Artagnan went to the foot of the bed. “Can I sit here?”

“'syour room.”

“Oh good, I wasn't sure you were sure.”

This earned him an upwards twitch of the lip, that faded as soon as it appeared. Porthos was shaking, d'Artagnan realized. He settled in, facing him, beyond arm's reach but no more than one swift lunge away. The noise of the garrison was a hum outside. D'Artagnan let his eyes slip halfway shut, regarding Porthos through his lashes.

Porthos calmed slowly. His trembling eased in d'Artagnan's presence, then at last he groaned and slumped forward, burying his face in the pillow he still clutched.

D'Artagnan stretched his legs out, so that the soles of his boots brushed Porthos' knees. “Good?”

“No,” Porthos replied, muffled behind the pillow. He raised his head and blinked blearily. “Goin' mad, d'Artagnan. Said it before but I think it's really true this time.”

“You aren't going mad. That happened.”

“He was alive?” Porthos questioned. “The whole time? I mean-- the whole time? He was never dead?”

“Looks that way.”

Porthos' face disappeared again. Then his shoulders began to heave in big, dragging pulses, the noises of which were lost in the pillow.

D'Artagnan crawled to his side, nudged his elbow into Porthos' ribcage. It was then that the man raised his head once more and d'Artagnan realized that he was laughing-- not weeping but laughing-- massively, hysterically. The sound scraped out from his ruined throat, ragged and wheezing.

“What the fuck?” Porthos gasped, teeth bared, eyes squeezed shut. “What the fuck?”

“I honestly don't know.”

“He's _alive_! ” Porthos cackled, hardly able to catch his breath; d'Artagnan felt a sympathetic tightness take his lungs. “Shittin' _Christ_! I don't”-- a titter rippled though his words, choking them off-- “I don't feel so good, d'Artagnan.” One hand came up to clutch at his neck; d'Artagnan reached over to undo his collar, assuming this to be his aim. Instead Porthos tugged something out from inside his shirt: Aramis' crucifix. Giggling haltingly, Porthos yanked the chain over his head and thrust the piece at d'Artagnan with force only just shy of ferocity.

D'Artagnan took it wordlessly. Porthos' skin, where it brushed his, was clammy; sweat beaded thickly along the edges of his brow. D'Artagnan stowed the crucifix in his pocket. Then he laid a hand on Porthos' back-- startling when Porthos jerked away.

“Don' touch me,” he snarled. The laughter had faded; still he fought loudly for breath. D'Artagnan eased back, stopping when Porthos let out a little whine. “Well, don' _leave_ ,” he cried, and despite everything d'Artagnan smiled weakly at this. Porthos folded up around the pillow and gulped down lungfuls of air, one hand pressed tight to his belly, the other a fist in front of his mouth. D'Artagnan waited patiently. In the otherwise silent room, Porthos waged a noisy war against an unseen enemy, the battleground his lungs, his strategy brute force.

At long last he claimed his victory. Then, visibly spent, Porthos collapsed onto his side, wriggling up close to d'Artagnan's hip.

“You know,” d'Artagnan mused, looking over Porthos' flushed, sweaty face, “you're really much more the dramatist than you let on.”

Porthos chuckled; there was no panic left in it, only a weary breed of calm. He rubbed shaking fingers slowly over his face.

“You could write a play about all of this. Turns out it's more a tragi _comedy_ than anything else; they say those are in now.”

The only response was a groan, and Porthos reached back around himself for the pillow, clutching it to his chest once again.

“Still feel sick?” d'Artagnan prompted.

“More dizzy th'n sick.” Fierce laughter had left his throat more raw than it had been already.

“Cold?”

“Hot-cold? Cold-hot?”

D'Artagnan pulled a blanket over him, reasoning that being cold was the easier to cope with of the two; Porthos closed his eyes.

“Where'd you go this morning?”

“Field.”

“Out of earshot of the good citizens of Paris?”

Porthos smiled. “M'ybe.”

D'Artagnan dragged his fingers through Porthos' hair, then let his hand linger gently at the back of his scull. Porthos drew in a slow breath. For a few minutes it seemed he was dozing, and d'Artagnan sank back against the wall and focused on the feeling of the curls beneath his fingertips. Then Porthos stirred, and pushed himself up with a groan. “Think I need t'be alone for a while. Sorry.”

“It's all right.”

“You gonna be good?”

“Yeah.” D'Artagnan drew Porthos in for a one-armed hug, relieved to find he'd stopped shaking. Porthos clapped him firmly on the shoulder. Then he drew back the blanket, swung his legs out of the bed, and stood with a massive stretch.

D'Artagnan curled up on the bed and watched him go. He'd failed to distract himself much past mid-afternoon, and now that he was home, lethargy pulled him in, tempted him to sit and stew in his fury and betrayal. Maybe he'd go see Constance after all. Or maybe Athos-- if he was going to have to think about things anyway, might as well seek out some support for the duration of it.

He was debating which of them to visit when there came a knock at the door.

It might have been Athos. It might have been Porthos returning. Hell, it might have been Treville, or even Serge, the old gossip, looking for confirmation of the inevitable rumor.

But d'Artagnan knew-- felt in his gut-- that the visitor was none of these. He went to the door.

Aramis was cast pale orange by the fading sunlight. He stood with his head down, and so far away from the door that he must have stepped back after knocking.

D'Artagnan's heart swelled with affection. But the rest of his body twisted and stung with anger, and he felt his hand become a fist on the doorframe.

“May I come in?”

D'Artagnan stepped aside to allow Aramis entry; the man blinked around the room with a vaguely dizzy expression. The door slammed shut. Before he quite realized that he was going to do it, d'Artagnan had taken Aramis' shoulders in his hands, needing to feel him, needing the reality of muscle and leather in his grip.

Then, just as unexpectedly, he was _squeezing_. His fingers tightened and tightened, pinching furiously at Aramis' flesh; he realized what he was doing, and it only made him grip harder--

Aramis wrenched free with a gasp. They stood, breathing heavily, staring one another down, and Aramis rubbed his shoulders without looking away.

“What do you want?” d'Artagnan demanded.

Aramis shrugged, offered up a grimace of a smile. “Company?”

“Athos had enough of you?”

“He's not the only one I missed,” Aramis mumbled. D'Artagnan kept himself from hugging him, for fear that he'd begin to strangle him instead.

Aramis dug into his pocket and found the crucifix. He tossed it carelessly at Aramis, who caught it with ease, but with a look that suggested he would have dove across the room for it if necessary. “Porthos left that for you.”

Aramis nodded, wordlessly.

“Athos said the captain would have buried you with it. He knew all along. We just assumed he wasn't coping. But he knew.”

Aramis wasn't listening. “Porthos wore this,” he said, staring at the crucifix.

“Every day.”

“I'm glad you were there for him,” Aramis murmured, running his fingers down the chain. “How-- has he been?”

“He's been how you'd think.”

“You said he's been-- he's been crying?”

D'Artagnan took a breath and flexed his fingers, as if they were cold. “You thought he wouldn't?”

“But he's been-- besides that--?”

“What do you want me to say?” d'Artagnan snapped. “You want me to tell you it wasn't so bad? Let's see. Well, he didn't eat for a week. Now he eats too much. Hasn't slept well since this whole thing started-- honestly I'm not sure he sleeps at all unless there's someone there to hold him. What else? Oh, on the first month anniversary of your _death_ , he got drunker than I've ever seen him, and I spent the entire night keeping him from choking on his own vomit. And yes, he cries. He cries all the _fucking_ time. He cries in his fucking _sleep_. He tries so hard to pretend he's all right but he isn't. At fucking all.”

Aramis hung his head, scruffed both hands through his hair, and said nothing.

“Were you planning on asking about Athos?” d'Artagnan prompted.

“How-- how's Athos?”

“Glad you asked. Athos basically abandoned us for a month, on a quest to prove that you were still alive. When he finally decided that you weren't, he got so drunk that even he admits it nearly killed him. Oh, and he hallucinated that he was visited by your ghost.”

Aramis' face was scarlet with shame.

“Were you planning on asking about me?”

Aramis opened his mouth, closed it; opened it again, and closed it again.

D'Artagnan's vision blurred. “I've been fine. Thanks for stopping by,” he snarled, then stalked to the door, flinging it open.

“Wait! Please, d'Artagnan.”

“No! Aramis, if you stay, I don't know what the fuck's gonna come out of my mouth! But I don't think you're gonna like it!”

“And I deserve it! I deserve every word of it! Just please-- don't make me leave.”

Nothing, in that moment, could have hurt him more, d'Artagnan realized. And so he fixed Aramis with the coldest stare he could muster, and did not relent until Aramis had shuffled out the door.

*

Outside of d'Artagnan's apartment, Aramis sighed as he settled the crucifix around his neck. He closed his eyes and bracing himself for the comfort that would surely follow--

But none came. Aramis blinked his eyes open, stared down at the familiar pendant, and felt no better than he had the minute before.

He was back. He was in his city, in his garrison, wearing his crucifix-- and yet the ache of homesickness had not faded.

In fact, it had risen to a roar.

But he had not slept in a day and a half now, and exhaustion blunted the sharpness of the pain as no other force could. All else could wait until morning; he needed rest. Treville had assigned him garrison quarters, like a new recruit again; in fact, they were only a few spaces down from d'Artagnan's own. Aramis reached them within seconds. The sun was barely setting, but, miserable and utterly drained, Aramis crawled into bed and fell asleep.

*

“You look unwell, _chevalier_ ,” the king sniffed. Porthos jolted into a sterner stance, caught so off-guard by the statement that it took a full few seconds to formulate a response.

“I'm well, Your Majesty,” he said at last, “but I appreciate Your Majesty's askin'.” Although he knew the king didn't actually care about his health, he also knew that he was right. Porthos looked terrible. He could tell, because he _felt_ terrible. He hadn't even tried to sleep the night before, and his eyes burned with the rawness that only such insomnia could bring. They were bright red, he was sure. The rest of his face was flushed as well, if the heat he felt was any indication, and he was sweating in the marble coolness of the palace merely from the effort of staying on his feet.

“I won't have the health of the dauphin endangered by an ill musketeer too stubborn to remain off-duty,” he king replied, still eyeing him.

“I'm not ill, sire. I wouldn't come spread it 'round if I were.”

“Porthos isn't ill, Your Majesty. Only tired.” D'Artagnan's voice was calm and assured, the kind of voice that people listened to.

“Very well,” the king relented, but for another moment at least his restless attention was fixed on them. “Your friend passed, didn't he? Wasn't that why you were all gone?”

“No, sire. Aramis was away, but is alive.”

“Ah,” the king replied, off-handedly. “My mistake. Well, I suppose that's good!”

“Yes, sire. We're all quite relieved.” And d'Artagnan's voice canted just enough that Porthos could catch the ambivalence there, even if the king could not.

It had been a full day now, since Aramis had come back to life. Quite at odds with the joy Porthos would have expected, he felt instead a sickening sense of betrayal, and of strange purposelessness. He had only just begun to know himself as a man who'd lost a brother. Now he was not that man any longer-- now he was a man with a brother who'd abandoned him, not for the world beyond but for a monastery half a day to the west.

D'Artagnan had come by for him at sunrise. And as they'd made their way to the palace for guard duty, Porthos had been unable to shake the sense that they'd taken a massive step back somehow. His friend watched him as carefully as he had those first awful days. And although the emotions themselves were different, Porthos had to admit that he felt similarly weighted down by them-- drained, defeated, unable to settle, but likewise unable to rouse himself to anything.

But how did that make sense? How was he doing anything other than weeping with utter, ecstatic gratitude?

D'Artagnan was nearly as quiet as Porthos himself. They passed the hours of duty in wordless stoicism, which endured as they trekked side-by-side back to the garrison that evening.

Athos found them in the mess hall. By force of habit, Porthos tore a piece of his bread and handed it to his friend, who accepted it just as instinctively. “Aramis wants to see us,” Athos said, after he'd chewed and swallowed a bite.

Swept under a wave of total exhaustion, Porthos' only response was to let his chin fall hard to his chest.

“What about?” d'Artagnan prompted, stabbing idly at his cabbage.

“I suppose he'll be explaining his side of things.”

“I'm not entirely in the mood for his side of things.”

For a moment, Athos looked as though he might admonish the boy for this; instead he shrugged. “It may satisfy curiosity, if not allay any actual hurts. I told him that I would be there. I did not answer for either of you.”

“Porthos?” d'Artagnan prompted, and Porthos lifted his head. It helped, a little, to know that he was not being forced-- by any of them.

“Yeah,” he grunted. “'ll go.”

“He's in Treville's office. It is at our leisure.”

Porthos wasn't planning on going for seconds anyway; he'd barely managed to finish what he'd taken, and even then only under his typical mantra of not letting food go to waste.

They stood.

Aramis was in Treville's office, though Treville was not; it seemed he had vacated it for this meeting, left Aramis standing alone, facing out of the window.

Athos called his name softly as they entered; Aramis turned.

And despite everything, despite the rage and the hurt and the utter abandonment-- _Christ_ , it was good to see his face.

“Athos,” Aramis greeted. “Porthos. D'Artagnan.”

“Hey,” Porthos mumbled, as d'Artagnan replied, “hello, Aramis.”

Aramis stepped away from the window; Porthos noted that he hugged his own waist for support. “I only wanted to answer the obvious questions,” he began, taking one step towards them. “This isn't an apology and it isn't forgiveness-seeking either. But I hope that at least you'll understand the captain's role in it, and not be angry with him for helping me.”

In truth, Porthos had had no time to be upset with Treville. A trusted captain-- and a beloved almost-father-- Treville's importance could not fade in comparison with most. But it faded in comparison with Aramis'.

“Why don't you start at the beginning?” Athos offered, and Aramis nodded and leaned against the captain's desk. He spoke to the floor, still clutching at himself like a child.

“You remember Adele,” Aramis began, and let his eyes close halfway. “Adele was killed by the cardinal, nearly a year ago now. Last month, a few nights before I-- left-- I was taken to her vault. Athos was with me. Athos, did you-- have you told them?”

“Yes.”

“So, I knew then-- I knew that his death had not made me safer. That it assured nothing. I was sick with the thought of the consequences to her. And you, my brothers--” He paused, let go of himself only just long enough to run a hand through his hair. “Adele lost her life for bedding me. I could not bear to think of the consequences to you, if he had known-- if he had known of your complicity in some of my other doings-- I couldn't be sure if he knew. I thought, were I dead, there would be no reason to punish you.

“The reasoning will not seem enough to you, but there it is. And I knew that I couldn't do it alone, so I begged Treville to help me. To his credit, he took a great deal of convincing. But in the end he saw the logic, and we agreed on the plan. The hardest part, of course, would be persuading you not to visit my body. Beyond that it was fairly straightfoward. So, if it helps, keep in mind that the captain and I did stay up all night wrapping rocks in burlap and arranging them to feel like a body in the coffin!” Aramis glanced around, and, finding no humor in the eyes of his brothers, hugged himself all the more tightly.

“That's the bulk of it,” he continued, voice weak with exhaustion. “I packed a bag and set off for the monastery, and that's when my part in it ended. From there it was all the captain-- and his apparent talent for theatre. That's all. I've spent the last five weeks mending cassocks and missing you.”

In a moment of unexpected symmetry, Porthos felt d'Artagnan's hand on his back at the precise moment that Athos laid his own on Aramis'.

“Like I said,” Aramis rasped, leaning into the touch. “I am not seeking forgiveness, _mes amis_. At least-- not right now.”

“So what happens now?” d'Artagnan prompted. “The captain has reinstated you, I assume. You'll return to duty? As though none of this happened at all?”

“Something like that, I suppose. I haven't asked. There really wasn't a return plan.”

“The captain made the right call in bringing you back,” Athos insisted. “I suppose he made the decision when we told him we were going to visit your family.”

“Funny,” d'Artagnan remarked. “If you were as orphaned as the rest of us, you'd probably still be _dead_.”

“You were going to visit my family?” Aramis seemed genuinely startled by the news.

D'Artagnan frowned. “Did you even think of them?”

“Yes, I-- I asked the captain not to tell them. I had hoped, in a year or two perhaps, I might decide to go home.”

“Treville was so insistent I not send my own letter,” Athos recalled. “I was furious with him for having sent his without consulting with me. Obviously he never sent it at all.”

“I asked a lot of him,” Aramis sighed. “I asked too much. I suppose I always have.”

D'Artagnan's hand was still on his back, and yet Porthos felt no more a part of his conversation than the dust on the rafters.

Suddenly unable to bear it any longer, he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you waiting for the bro-down between Porthos and Aramis, it WILL be in the next chapter. Felt too rushed to have it happen this soon, but it's coming.


	7. Chapter Seven

Athos gave Porthos a few hours, but once he made up his mind to search it took him minutes only. Porthos was in his customary tavern. It was an odd sight, the man drinking whilst not surrounded by cards and friends, or at least cards and enemies. But Porthos was alone. Was alone, and was gulping down his ale with a desperation Athos found all too familiar-- the way in which a man drank when he had no other recourse left to him for dealing with the chaos in his own head.

Athos settled across the table from him and waited. The mug was drained dry, and another ordered and received, before Porthos addressed him at all.

“You should be angry with me.”

“Why?”

Porthos shook his head, took a massive pull of his drink.

Athos waited, though for a minute only this time, before prompting him again. “Porthos, why should I be angry with you?”

“B'cause you were right!” Porthos snapped, slamming down his mug. Droplets of ale splattered the table. “Aramis was alive this 'ole time. An' you _knew_ , an' you let me talk you outta it! You should be _furious_!”

“You were right to talk me out of it,” Athos replied, “and I was right to let you. Aramis did turn out to be alive, but-- that wasn't the point.”

“That _wasn't the point_?” Porthos scoffed. “'ow could it not've been th'point? He was _alive_ an' you was the only one clever enough t'realize.”

“But did I realize?” Athos posed. “Or was I simply in denial? I'm not even sure which myself.”

Porthos stared blankly. Athos took a breath, and forced out the words he'd been avoiding for days now: “If I truly had believed Aramis to be alive, I would have managed to look inside the coffin. But part of me was sure I'd find him there.  _You_ should be angry with  _me_ . If I had opened it, we all would have been saved so much of this.”

Porthos faltered, and abruptly fell in on himself; his head hung so low his chin was nearly at his chest. “Weren't your fault.”

“And it wasn't yours, either.”

“Then why d'I feel s'damn _guilty_?”

“Because,” Athos murmured, “Aramis is alive.”

Porthos huffed a broken sigh.

“Porthos,” Athos tried again. “Aramis is _alive_. And you're burying yourself in cups when you should be holding him to your chest and refusing to let go.”

“Can't.”

“No?”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“'cause I-- I _hate_ 'im,” Porthos slurred.

“You could no more hate Aramis than you could hate yourself.”

“Hate m'self plenty.” Porthos reached once more for his mug.

Athos' hand met his on the handle, and they both went still. “Don't,” Athos said.

Porthos blinked.

“Don't do this to yourself,” Athos continued. “You are not a hateful man, Porthos. You have always been, and will always be, the best of us.”

Porthos shook his head. Pushing Athos' hand away, he seized his drink, downed it, then set the empty mug down with a clunk. “'f you wanna help,” he growled, “gemme another.”

Athos said nothing.

“Awright. But 'f you're angry, be angry,” Porthos rumbled. “Jus' fuckin' throw a punch an' get it over with.”

He opened himself up, tapped his own chest in his characteristic  _come-and-get-me_ gesture. Athos hated that; he always had.  _Come and get me_ , it said;  _everyone else has and I've fucking survived it_ .

It broke his heart to see it, every time.

Athos stood-- then pulled Porthos into his arms, holding on with silent determination as Porthos stiffened, then slouched against him. “ _Mon ami_ ,” Athos murmured, “you are drunk, and despairing, and I am seeing you to bed now.”

“Think we've got this backwards,” Porthos rasped. He was shaking now.

Athos scratched his fingers lightly over the curly head pressed against his chest. “Will you come or will I be carrying you?”

“'d like t'see you try,” Porthos snorted. He wrapped his arms snugly around Athos' waist and rested there for a long moment, steadying his breathing. At last, supported by Athos, he pushed to his feet.

“We're still going tomorrow,” Athos told him, as he steered him into the quiet of the street.

“Where?”

“Aramis' family home. Treville arrived after you left. He informed us that he saw no reason to rescind our leave.”

“Why w'ld we still visit 'em?”

“Well, I assume Aramis would like to see them. It's been over two years now.”

“He's comin'?”

“It's not as though he was on the duty roster.”

“Guess not.” Porthos, possibly unaware that he was doing so, clung ever more tightly to Athos' shoulder.

“You do not have to come,” Athos soothed him. “If you don't want to. You do not have to come. Although-- we would miss you.”

Porthos did not reply.

They reached his apartment, and Athos let them in; he hauled Porthos over to the bed and then, even though his friend was probably still capable of doing it himself, removed Porthos' boots and jacket. Porthos let him. He had been right: this was a poignant reversal of roles, and Athos wondered if Porthos always felt so genuinely _protective_ of him as he tended to his drunkenness. All Athos really wanted to do was bundle Porthos in a blanket and shield him from all that might do him harm.

Candles lit, Athos settled on the bed as well; warmth flooded his belly as Porthos instantly keeled against him, letting himself be soothed and steadied once more. For a moment, neither of them sought anything beyond this silent companionship.

Then Porthos pulled in a breath and admitted, “I don' wanna go. I r'lly jus' don'.”

“Porthos--”

“But I know I should.”

“Shall we say you need not decide just yet?” Athos suggested quietly, nudging his head against Porthos'. “We're set to depart at seven o'clock. If you wish, come. If you do not, I will understand entirely. As will d'Artagnan. It isn't as if we'll be gone all too long.”

D'Artagnan's named seemed to have stirred a memory. “He wanted t'ride back through Lupiac. Should be there for 'im.”

“You've been more than a friend to him, especially of late. He knows how hard this has been on you.”

“But it shouldn't be hard! I mean-- why's it hard? Aramis is alive. He's fuckin' alive. It's jus'-- I dunno--” He heaved a miserable sigh. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“Don't apologize,” Athos scolded. “Sleep.” Porthos nodded against his shoulder. “Shall I stay?”

“Nah. Think I drank enough I'll get a coupla hours a'least.”

Athos took the words like a dagger to the gut. He knew of Porthos' sleeping troubles-- had pieces together the story from snippets here and there-- but the two of them had never discussed the issue directly. To hear it referenced so freely set off a pang of empathy.

“Are you sure?” he prompted.

“Mm-hm.”

“Very well.” Athos stood, and went to blow the candles out as Porthos lay himself down. “Goodnight, _mon ami_. I will stand beside you, whatever you choose.”

*

Dawn brought an ache, an ache that consumed Porthos inside and out. Grief and fury and betrayal and guilt had worn him down-- had _beaten_ him down-- until legs and lungs and heart and head all throbbed with the mere thought of rising.

Half a dozen mugs of ale probably hadn't helped either.

Porthos forced himself to move, just enough to roll over onto his stomach and press burning eyes into his pillow. He wanted to stay there all day. He wanted to stay there forever. But he knew, at the back of his mind, that he wasn't going to; so, after another minute or two of disconsolate self-pity, Porthos pushed himself to his feet and began to dress.

He reached the garrison yard at a quarter of seven. More than anything he wanted to spare his friends any moments of uncertainty as to whether or not he would attend. Athos and d'Artagnan were already there. D'Artagnan's face broke into a brilliant grin as he caught sight of Porthos, and before he knew what was happening, Porthos found the boy on top of him-- literally on top of him-- having launched himself at Porthos bodily and landed with his arms around Porthos' neck, legs around Porthos' thighs.

Porthos burst out laughing, and braced his arms against d'Artagnan's back. D'Artagnan continued this four-limbed hug for a bit longer, then disembarked with a terribly satisfied expression.

“I'm pleased to see you as well,” Athos drawled from the bench, eyes shining with good humor. “But perhaps I shall keep my feet on the ground.”

Rather than having exacerbated the pain in his limbs, such an ebullient greeting had soothed Porthos deeply. He settled onto the bench besides Athos. Before them, d'Artagnan ran through a few sequences of positions, sword held proudly in his hand, breath forming clouds in the chilly morning air. Despite the clouds, the moment was lovely. He had so much laid out before him: his friends, the garrison, and the promise of a peaceful little adventure, of a few weeks out of the city.

In Porthos' mind, the arrival of Aramis should have only added to this happiness.

In reality, the arrival of Aramis cast a rippling wave of coldness over Porthos' body, and Porthos sighed, remembering why it was he'd wanted to avoid this trip in the first place.

And to make matters worse, Aramis looked like Aramis again.

In his time at the monastery, he had not seen to his beard; upon his return it had lacked its typical grooming, instead forming an inelegant poof. But the old beard was back now. Likewise, Aramis had dressed in his brown leathers and blue sash, belts and straps done as they always had been, pauldron neatly in place.

Aramis was alive. That was the whole damn crux of things. And so why, standing there in the grey training yard-- why did he look like a ghost?

Perhaps sensing eyes on him, Aramis shifted uneasily.

Athos stood, back straight, chin up, looking strong and steady and all of the things that Porthos needed him to be just then. “Shall we?” Drawing strength from him, Porthos nodded and stood.

They trailed Athos to the stables, loaded and mounted the horses, and set off. The streets were coming alive as the sky brightened. Stalls opened along market streets, and shops of bakers and butchers and barbers began to open their doors.

The morning bustle of Paris disguised the fragile silence within their own group. Each seemed lost in his own thoughts, and in fact they were out of the city proper before another word was heard.

“I--”

This was from Aramis, whose face had gone shockingly pale.

“Aramis?” Athos drew his horse up alongside the man's, and all four of them slowed to a halt.

Aramis caught his breath, but still when he spoke it was nearly a squeak. “We were riding back by way of Lupiac, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Can we-- can we go there first instead?”

“Why?”

“I'm not ready. I'm not--”

“I think I'm as ready as I'll ever be,” d'Artagnan cut in, and the tension Aramis' shoulders eased, a little.  
“Are you two all right with that?”

Athos nodded. Porthos shrugged.

“Thank you. Thanks,” Aramis replied, meeting nobody's eyes, and spurring his horse on again. Mentally Porthos reversed the map that he'd held in his mind, though to make this alteration was not much. They probably wouldn't account for it at all this first day. Such a minor thing had had an enormous impact on Aramis, though, who looked veritably faint with relief.

“Your family doesn't know any of this,” d'Artagnan prompted, after a little while. Paris had faded behind the horizon as the country swelled up around them.

“As I said,” Aramis replied, already sounding tired. “Going there immediately-- well, I didn't want to put them in danger either. But I was hoping once things had settled, I might go home. They never fancied me a soldier in any case. It's so quiet in the village. And I would get the chance to be the brother and the uncle that I haven't been for-- nearly a decade now.”

“You would have died from boredom within weeks,” Athos teased. Aramis' chuckle did nothing to brighten his eyes.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“A certain incident at the waters comes to mind,” d'Artagnan said, and Aramis flinched deeply.

“Shooting birds,” Athos reminded him. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Aramis echoed, still pained in a way that puzzled Porthos. “But I am not the man I was that day. I think perhaps some tranquility would be best now.”

“Well,” d'Artagnan huffed, “then it's a good thing we're headed to Gascony, eh?”

They rode on; in the silence, an ugly question swelled in Porthos' belly. Too tired to hold it in, he heard himself demand, “ _are_ you gonna tell 'em?”

“Tell them?” Aramis glanced over, just for a moment.

“'bout everythin'. 'bout the past two months.”

Aramis blinked.

“They should know,” Porthos continued. “You was protectin' 'em, after all? Not goin' there straight away?”

“If they are to know, I will tell them,” Aramis replied, voice suddenly cold. “I ask you to respect that. All of you.”

Athos and d'Artagnan nodded; Porthos held a hand up, biting his cheek to keep the anger at bay.

“Only,” he huffed, tamping down with teeth and sheer willpower, “what bothers me is, you never gave 'em a choice, didja?”

“What do you mean?”

“Choice 'bout bein' protected. Maybe they'd rather've protected you. Maybe they'd've felt better standin' up for you, than bein' left in the dark.”

“My family are civilians.”

“Come off it, Aramis,” d'Artagnan warned. “You know what he means.”

Aramis looked away, so that his words were nearly lost. “Yes. I do.”

The day was long. Porthos could not quite remember when the last traces of winter had gone from the air, but there were none to be found now; it might have been a lovely day under other circumstances. As it was, the mild air felt unfamiliar, overhot. Sweat itched at the small of his back, soaked into the hem of his bandana until he was forced to remove it.

They ate lunch by a small stream. Aramis chatted briefly to Athos; then, quickly sensing that the atmosphere was not one to brook conversation, fell silent. His disappointment was visible. Porthos himself sat wordlessly, d'Artagnan close at hand; when both had finished, they leaned up against each other and closed their eyes to listen to the running water.

Less idyllic was their campsite that evening. Rocks and roots poked up in abundance; nearby plants smelled far too sour; and the wood fought long before finally taking a fire.

A foul site to fit his foul mood, Porthos decided. Aramis' presence used to soothe him; now it angered him, agitated him, annoyed him. And it  _pained_ him-- in those little snippets of time where his death was still a truth, and every glimpse of him was the flash of a ghost. The lump in his throat was nearly constant. Surely he understood what had happened-- where else could all the ire have come from? So why did the deepest piece of him still doubt? Still mourn?

Fury and grief were a dangerous combination, especially when levied at the same person.

Athos and d'Artagnan pushed the issue only once. They left as a pair to search for firewood, both clearly hoping that some joyous reunion would take place were Porthos and Aramis only given a moment of privacy.

This didn't happen. What happened was that Porthos watched them go, feeling the misery twisting his face; then Aramis frowned and remarked, “you and d'Artagnan have gotten close”; and then Porthos growled, “oh, I'm sorry, Aramis. Did the stars move around somebody other than you for a tick there?” And then they both glared and turned away.

By the time the others returned, Porthos was angrier than ever.

The following evening was no different, nor was the third, though by then blatant hostilities had been tempered by fatigue. Rage was a heavy load to bear, and Porthos was exhausted-- not quite beyond coherency, but certainly beyond any extraneous interactions. Aramis too seemed drained dry. He sulked at the edge of the clearing as the sun dipped lower, and ate none of the supper that Athos foisted on him patiently.

With a decent amount of light left, Porthos set off for a walk through the woods. Nature had always calmed him; even now the forest served to slow his racing heart. It did not, however, engender peace, nor compassion, nor even acceptance.

Except, maybe it had? As the sun set and Porthos made his way back to camp, he crossed beside Aramis; the man sat in a hunch, chin nearly touching his knees, forehead creased with tension. Porthos stared down at him, sympathy stirring unexpectedly. “Stomach?” he prompted. Aramis nodded miserably, and let his head fall forward until his face was buried in his legs. 

There was a choice to be made. Scores of times, he'd settled himself next to his friend in moments of anxiety, rubbed his back until his muscles eased and then distracted him from the ache by chattering about nothing in particular. He could do so now. It would not be an apology, nor an acceptance of one-- just a small gesture of kindness and a symbol that all might not be lost. It would, Porthos knew, mean the world to Aramis. He never felt quite so alone as when he was not feeling well, and it tugged at Porthos' heart to realize how many occurrences of this he probably bore at the convent.

It would be so easy to sink down beside him. So easy to pull him close, to run a hand through his curls and feel the warmth of his body and breath. So, so easy to take away a bit of his hurt.

“Think I migh' be sick,” Aramis mumbled-- but sounded closer to crying than anything else, and--

No. Kindness had not returned to his heart. Porthos stared for a long moment, before turning and walking away.

*

Tears blurred the image of Porthos' retreating back, and Aramis rubbed at them impatiently. He'd earn no kindnesses by weeping. Just as he'd earned none by feeling ill, none by agreeing to this trip, none even by returning from the dead.

Apparently dying in the first place had been too great a sin to overlook.

_Stop that_ , Aramis ordered himself; in Porthos' shoes, he knew, he'd feel just as betrayed. And yet-- how hard would it be? For Porthos to put himself in Aramis' own position? To realize how awfully, abjectly,  _agonizingly_ lonely he'd been? To realize that the tiniest scrap of friendship would be nothing short of a blessing now?

Christ, it was killing him. The loneliness was killing him. His hands were shaking and his heart was pounding and his fucking stomach hadn't stopped hurting for nearly two months now.

Maybe longer.

Feeling almost tipsy, Aramis pushed to his feet; to be beside Porthos, even unwelcome, was better than sitting alone. Porthos stood at the opposite edge of the clearing, frowning into the deepening twilight. Aramis walked to him slowly, extending one arm as he drew nearer; he stopped with his fingers a tiny span away from Porthos shoulder.

“Tell me what you're thinking. Please.”

Porthos said nothing.

“Please,” Aramis repeated, withdrawing his arm. “Used to always have some idea, even if I wasn't sure.”

Porthos turned his head, blinked down at him slowly. “I miss you,” he muttered.

A pained little laugh escaped Aramis' lips. “I know you did. You've said.”

“No,” Porthos murmured. “I _miss_ you. The old you. The Aramis I wasn't furious with. Eh? The Aramis from back when I didn't think you'd ever hurt me. I want him. I wanna fuckin'-- put my arms around him. Hold 'im. I never wanna let him turn into you.”

A dagger to the guts would have wounded him less. Fighting desperately to draw a breath, Aramis finally managed to rasp, “I'm afraid it's a bit late for that.”

Porthos' smile was a horrid thing: sharp and fierce and spiteful. “Don't I know it,” he hissed.

“Perhaps-- for a moment only-- we could pretend?” The softness, the pleading quality of his own words revolted Aramis, and yet he couldn't keep them back. “Maybe for just a moment you could hold me instead?”

That hard-won air exploded from Aramis' lungs, in a massive, ungraceful _ooof_. Porthos had not tempered his gut punch. The next landed on Aramis' ribs as he twisted away from the blows, the third on his shoulder as he began to duck instead. He raised his arms weakly, took another shoulder blow for his efforts. A whimper escaped him, at the blind and unbridled fury leeching from his tenderhearted Porthos. He could have fought back. And maybe that's what Porthos wanted: a reaction, a proof of life. But Aramis was nothing but exhausted. He had no more energy to fight anyone, least of all his closest friend, and before another fist could land he had sunk to his knees.

“Get up!” Porthos snarled. “Get up, you goddamn coward!”

Aramis shook his head, curling himself up around his abused body. His fingers were tingling, going numb. Between the blow to his belly and the ache that had already been there, he was half-sure he'd actually vomit now.

“ _Get up! Get off the fuckin' ground!_ ” Porthos screamed, and a fresh spike of pain shot through Aramis' body as Porthos' boot made contact with his thigh.

“Porthos!” Athos shouted, “that's enough!”

Aramis did not lift his eyes from the ground, but understood enough from the sounds: Porthos, lashing out at Athos, lashing out at d'Artagnan, and they in turn restraining him as he tried to get at Aramis himself once again--

"Get off me!" Porthos howled, and either Athos or d'Artagnan took a blow.

" _Porthos_! Calm! Down!" And that was d'Artagnan, sounding more like Athos than he ever had before.

“Get-- ge'off me,” Porthos moaned, “ge'off me, goddamn it-- _oh_ \--”

Then Porthos fell beside him.

Aramis winced, bracing himself for the beating to continue, but when he found himself toppling over it was beneath an embrace and not an assault. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around Porthos in return.

The man was heaving, not with the panting of exertion but with gasps and sobs that rapidly gave way to broken weeping. “It's all right,” Aramis soothed, mouth just at Porthos' ear. “All right, all right, all right.”

“You were fucking-- _dead_ ,” Porthos managed, the words nearly retches. 

“I'm not, my friend. My dear, dear friend. I'm not dead.”

“You lied t'me. To _me_.”

“ _Shh_ , I know.”

“Fuck you,” Porthos sobbed. “You fuckin' bastard-- oh, Christ-- _Aramis_.” His fingers were daggers, a set of five between Aramis' shoulder blades and another at the nape of his neck. “Do you--” Porthos choked, coughed, spittle settling against Aramis' skin. “ _Do you know what it was like_?”

Tears were leaking down Aramis' cheeks. “Don't think on it,” he murmured. “Porthos. My Porthos. I'm with you.” Porthos just clung tighter, his breathing explosive, erratic, his whole body taken by violent tremors. “Hush, now, you'll make yourself sick,” Aramis fretted. “ _Mon ami. Mi amor._ _Shh_ ,  _shh_ .”

Porthos' laugh was a terrible thing, a painful, hateful perversion of his characteristic guffaw. “Been sick,” he choked out. “Been drinkin'. Been up for days at a fuckin' time.” The burst of anger faded back into helpless tears. Porthos pressed his face against Aramis' chest, weeping with ugly abandon.

Christ, had coming back been worth it? Porthos had been adjusting, coping, living-- had his return been worth the excruciation he now was witnessing? Had he been more beloved in memory than in betrayal?

Athos and d'Artagnan were watching, side-by-side, he realized; there were tears on d'Artagnan's cheeks, and in Athos' eyes. There was such misery on their faces, such hurt. In his arms, Porthos whined and burrowed deeper, clutching Aramis' waist now instead of his neck.

“I'm sorry,” Aramis murmured. “Please stop crying, Porthos. I never meant-- _any_ of this. I just wanted to protect you! _I just wanted to protect you_!” 

Porthos just clung tighter.

Aramis bowed his head, listened to the men around him. Four pairs of eyes shed tears, four pairs of lungs struggled for breath and failed now and again with sobs that were near-silent but dreadfully loud in the still air. Something lay broken at their feet. And yet there was still a painful propriety-- born of dignity, perhaps, or more likely shame-- that prevented Aramis from doing what he really wanted, which was to gather his brothers all to him and allow their griefs to unite as one, rather than mingle timidly at arm's length.

He should say something. Surely there was some combination of words, somewhere in the the most distant aethers of the French language, that he could string together to express how sincerely he regretted their pain--

But Aramis could not find it.

Porthos sank lower and lower, until it became clear that he'd wept himself into an exhausted sleep, head heavy in Aramis' lap. Aramis reported this to the others, quietly. D'Artagnan sniffed and wiped his eyes before casting an arm around Athos' shoulders; Athos nodded, leaning into him. “We should rest as well. I'll take the first watch.”

Aramis should have told him to sleep, because Aramis himself would never manage to-- but, cowardly as ever, he stayed silent. He'd be glad of the company.

D'Artagnan settled next to the fire. Within minutes he was asleep, curled up in a tight ball that reminded Aramis of just how much younger than the rest of them the boy really was. There was a tree a short span behind Aramis' back. Athos had propped himself against it; Aramis could not see him, but could feel his tranquil presence.

The moon rose higher. Porthos slept on, though not peacefully; he shifted in his sleep, restless and upset. Aramis soothed him as best he could. He ran his fingers through Porthos' hair, then down along his cheeks, where rivers of tears had left salty shadows that made Porthos seem weary and worn.

“I thought it would heal,” Aramis mused, as Porthos heaved a broken sigh. He let his fingertips linger at the edge of Porthos' beard before bringing them back to the crown of his head, running them over the dips and rises of his curls.

“It's healing,” Athos replied.

“No. I-- I thought-- perhaps there would be a moment of confusion. Of anger, or tears. But then-- I've been back nearly a week now. And the wound is not yet closed.”

Athos grunted. A moment later he was at their side; he reached over, touched a hand to Porthos' temple before speaking. “This was not a moment of confusion in the middle of a fight, Aramis. Nor a worry when you turned up late for duty. We believed you dead for over a month.”

“I know.”

“Then you should understand that it cannot be brushed aside. Your death was a reality to us. We buried you, and mourned you. And after a while, we began to accept it.”

 _Porthos is dying_.

Aramis thought back to that moment, thought back to the sick-stomached disbelief, the feverish, staccato monologue of _no no no no no_ at the core of his brain. He tried to magnify that feeling. Tried to picture it doubled then doubled again, but his mind shut the thought away from him like a parent keeping a dangerous flame away from their child.

“I can't imagine,” Aramis muttered.

“Then you see my point,” Athos sighed. “You can't imagine what it would be to lose one of us. And we don't need to imagine. We know what it's like. And your return has not erased that memory from our minds. To ask that Porthos be the same after this-- it isn't realistic. We know the weight of your coffin now.”

Athos' voice cracked, ever-so-slightly, and Aramis felt tears stab hotly at his eyes once again. “I'm sorry,” he murmured.

Athos did not reply.

“I'm sorry, Athos,” Aramis tried again.

Suddenly there was a hand at the back of his neck, gripping it almost painfully.

“Aramis,” Athos rasped, “your apologies do not erase it either.”

A tear splashed onto Porthos' forehead. Through blurry eyes, Aramis watched his fingers wipe it away, then continue to stroke the furrowed landscape of his brother's brow.

“Weep,” Athos prompted, taking his hand away. “Tonight would seem the night for it. I think we all have tears to shed if we ever wish to leave this pain behind us.”

“Do you think we can?” Aramis whimpered. “Do you think we can recover from this?”

Athos hesitated.

And Aramis broke.

“Oh, God,” he bleated, tears streaming now, “oh, God, say yes. Say yes, Athos, _please_ , don't go. Don't leave me. Don't go.”

Porthos jolted awake, lifted his head from Aramis' lap, and at the sudden absence Aramis found himself dissolving into sobs: “don't go, don't go-- don't go, don't go--” knowing that he'd be left alone once and for all now-- and he couldn't bear it, he just fucking _couldn't_ \--

Then Porthos was embracing him from one side, and Athos from the other, and Aramis could do no more than press his face against Athos' shoulder and bawl. “Don't go, don't go--” he whimpered, feeling his nose running freely, feeling as though he could very well be sick, and Porthos' arms were tight around his waist and Athos' lips were warm against his forehead as he whispered, “breathe, Aramis, we're not going anywhere--” and Porthos murmured, “'sall right, 'sall right, Jesus, stop fussin'--” but there was nothing left inside of Aramis to put up as a barricade, to put up as a dam, and so the tears simply poured and poured and poured--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, only one chapter to go! I hope Porthos' breakdown lived up to expectations... that was the first scene I wrote, back before season two even aired, before I even knew the plot of the rest of this story. It's only been edited a bit since then. I kind of love that scene. Anyway.
> 
> Aramis' nervous stomach thing is a carry-over from some of my earlier stories. I realized as I was editing this that I never really introduced it in this fic, but I left it in because it still seemed organic for the characters to recognize it anyway. Isn't it funny the little headcanons we give the boys? I'm (gasp) starting to lay out the sequel to this, and for some reason just ended up headcanoning d'Art the tiny bladder friend of the group. (You know every group has one. [In mine, it's me.]) Anyway, I'm babbling. I really hope you enjoyed :)


	8. Chapter Eight

It may have been past midnight now. Aramis' eyes were dry-- finally, after what seemed like hours. But his lungs had not caught up with the rest of him. They continued to grieve, breaking out in inelegant little hiccups every few minutes, pale echos of violent sobs.

His head was against Athos' chest now. They'd shifted back towards the tree, and Athos had reclined against it to accommodate the body curled up against his. Aramis realized that he'd let Athos take nearly all of his weight. Porthos was no longer holding him, but had not broken away; now he sat, folded in on himself, his head resting warmly on Aramis' hip. D'Artagnan had joined them, fitted up against Porthos. His eyes were closed, head on Porthos' shoulder, but he held a loose bit of Aramis' shirt tightly in his fist.

Aramis was warm. Warm and safe and so so sad, because if he had never pulled this stunt they might have instead have been drinking and laughing in some tavern somewhere, the four of them, or even just the three of them, and instead here they were in a jumble of grief, drained and exhausted and betrayed and--

“I've broken it,” Aramis murmured, words muffled against Athos' jacket. “I've broken us.”

D'Artagnan made a small sound, and released his shirt. Porthos sat back, but did not lift his head.

Aramis nuzzled closer to Athos' chest, guilt weighing so heavily he felt hardly able to breathe. Another little hiccup escaped his mouth. Then a hand slid into his hair, just behind his ear.

“Aramis,” Athos replied, voice stern yet fond. “Do you think that any one of us was whole to start with?”

“Made it worse. I put you through a month of-- and now I'm putting you through this.” Aramis pushed away, hugged his arms around himself instead.

It was d'Artagnan, in the end, who took him in again; he crawled hesitantly forward, wedging between Athos and Porthos, and pulled Aramis into a firm embrace. “It was far from your finest moment,” he admitted. “But who would we be if we only stuck around for those?”

*

Everything was a little bit better the next day. Rather than dragging along behind the others, an unwanted addition, Aramis was slowly coming to feel like a part of things again-- coming to feel normal.

At times. Then there were other times, when he was forcibly reminded of how much had changed.

D'Artagnan's anger had ended. In turn it had been replaced by an apparently overwhelming need to hug Aramis with laughable frequency-- once every time they disembarked from the horses, and at least thrice more while they made their camp at night. And hugs were not the whole of it. He bumped shoulders with Aramis, sprawled legs over his legs, even curled up beside him on multiple occasions, looking so like a lonely pup that Aramis couldn't help but reach over and scratch his head. Not that it was a chore. Now that he was done being so thoroughly furious, the boy's reaction was certainly the easiest to bear.

Athos' was a little harder. He had been the one to welcome Aramis, to accept if not forgive his actions-- which made his lingering grief all the more painful. It was as though he expected Aramis to disappear again. The next night, Aramis woke to find Athos, on watch, staring openly at him; huge, silent tears came slowly down his cheeks. Aramis stared back through his lashes, feigning sleep. This lasted nearly an hour, right up until Athos wiped his eyes and woke Porthos for his watch.

And _Porthos_ .

There was the heart of the matter.

Because if d'Artagnan had to cling a little, if Athos had to weep, it was all on the pathway to healing.

But Porthos had clung, and wept. And he still looked at Aramis out of the corner of his eye, still looked at him like something suspicious, possibly even distasteful.

Still looked at him like a ghost.

*

“We'll be there soon,” d'Artagnan announced. It was mid-morning on the fifth day. The boy's voice wasn't quiet, exactly, or even necessarily on edge, but Porthos could sense the fragility of his composure as he frowned at the horizon and added, “two hours, give or take.”

“To Lupiac or Gascony?” Porthos asked.

“Lupiac. This is Gascony,” d'Artagnan replied, with an honest smile. “Couldn't you tell?”

If this was Gascony, Porthos decided, he could see why d'Artagnan was always going on about it. Sure, it was home, and that meant a lot. But to have spent childhood somewhere so beautiful, so peaceful and vast-- d'Artagnan's pride made a little more sense now. As did his restlessness.

He wasn't restless now, though neither was he calm; instead he seemed somewhere outside that spectrum. Resolved, maybe. Determined.

Possibly terrified.

Porthos flanked him instinctively, one eye on the road and one eye on d'Artagnan as he took it all in, reacquainted himself with the sights.

They'd ridden perhaps an hour this way when d'Artagnan slowed his horse at the top of a large, gentle hill. “We're near my mother's family's village. Still about an hour to Lupiac. Let's give the horses a rest.”

They dismounted and moved a little off the path. All around them were fields and hills, hills and fields; on the air was the faintest hint of young lavender. Porthos breathed deeply, calming despite himself.

D'Artagnan went to Aramis, who hugged him with practiced ease, then kept him close for a minute or two. When they parted, d'Artagnan pulled in a slow breath. Then, with a nod at the others, he wandered off, looking deeply at home as he crossed the flowing landscape.

“He doesn't speak of his mother often,” Athos mused. He settled on the ground, and Porthos and Aramis following his lead, each taking a side. “Not nearly as often as his father.”

“You'd think it'd be easier,” Porthos replied. “He was so young when she passed.”

“Maybe he doesn't remember her.”

Something in Aramis' words upset Porthos in a way he didn't quite understand, but he was saved from reacting by Athos' patient response. “Maybe he doesn't need to speak of her anymore. Are you all right?”

It took them both a moment to realize that the question had been directed at Aramis. “Fine,” the man muttered. “My mother was with me until I was twenty-eight. Believe me, I'm well aware of what a blessing that was.”

“This will be your first visit home, since her funeral.”

“Yes, it will.” Aramis sighed. “I suppose I'm just hoping it will be better this time. Then-- I don't know. The whole place felt-- haunted. It wasn't that I expected to see her. That's not it. I just kept remembering where she'd been-- where she'd sat, where she'd worked, and slept. And I could close my eyes, and I could feel her there. Feel where she'd been, as though only seconds had passed. Not even ghosts, but shadows. The house felt so empty without her, and yet full of her-- because these echoes were _everywhere_.”

They were, weren't they? Aramis in the mess hall, Aramis in the stables. Aramis in the training yard. Aramis in the throne room.

Aramis praying, rosary swinging steadily.

Aramis laughing, melon pulp dripping off the tip of his beard.

Aramis grumbling, caught in the rain and fumbling for his door key.

Aramis snoring, drunk to the high heavens and passed out fast asleep in Porthos' bed, fingers curled so close to Porthos' pillow that months later they still seemed real enough to touch--

Athos' hand on his knee brought Porthos back. A split second glance to the side told him that both pairs of eyes were on him.

“I remember the same being true after my father passed,” Aramis murmured, still looking at Porthos. “I was stationed so far I didn't make it home until a month after the funeral. Marsac was with me. And it was the same thing. And I've always wondered if they did that for me. If they left behind bits of themselves for me, and brother and sisters. I wonder if that's a gift the dead can give.”

“Can't be,” Porthos grunted. “Saw you everywhere--”

“You saw me everywhere?”

“--an' you didn't die.”

“Would you rather I had?”

Athos stiffened between them. Aramis sat back, hiding himself behind Athos' body, as Porthos slumped forward, let his head fall into his hands. “That ain't fair.”

“And yet you didn't answer.”

“Christ, Aramis! Of course I wouldn't rather you'd died. Seein' you alive-- it was one'f the best moments of my life.” Porthos shoved his thumbs against his temples, fighting to stay calm. “Just-- do you know how much this has fucked us for the long run? Death's meant to be an absolute. Someday-- I mean, God forbid, but-- someday if this happens again, y'know I’m gonna be planted by the window waitin' for the person I lost t'come home. Might know it's for real, might see their body, but there's always gonna be that little doubt that's gonna keep me from lettin' 'em be. And _not_ lettin' 'em be-- keepin' the loss fresh in your head-- that hurts the most.”

“You're all making it seem like I've never lost anyone. But I have.”

“All right, but this ain't your story. Story of your death ain't your story. That's the whole damn point. The story of your death belongs to the people who lost you.”

“But this happened to me too!” Aramis wailed. “This happened to me too, Porthos!”

Nobody responded to that.

After a moment of silence, Aramis sighed. “Do you know how the captain convinced me to return?”

“No.”

“He told me you were dying.”

“Oh.”

“He told me there was no hope to be had. And that in your final hours you'd forgotten of my death and were calling for me. He told me to come back and-- hold your hand, while you died. I see it in my dreams now. Nearly every night, I see your death. Sometimes I make it back in time. Sometimes I don't.”

“Shit,” Porthos murmured, his own nightmares lurking. Then, in the next breath, “ain't the same.”

“It isn't, Aramis,” Athos agreed.

Aramis' face twisted. “Fuck,” he bleated, then pushed to his feet and stalked a short span down the hill. Porthos closed his eyes. He tried to once again find the scent of lavender, but the wind had picked up, and all Porthos could smell was movement-- the air itself.

D'Artagnan returned to them soon, meeting Aramis halfway up the hill. He received another hug from him, then marched to Porthos' side in a way that unabashedly demanded one from him as well. Porthos stood, embraced him tightly. Then, surprising them all, Athos did the same; d'Artagnan closed his eyes against their gathering dampness, in an expression of contentment and sheer relief.

“Ready?” Porthos prompted.

“Yeah,” d'Artagnan agreed, pulling away from Athos with a small, honest smile. “Plenty of light left.”

“Lead the way,” Athos told him.

The wind continued to rise, cutting easily across the open landscape; it made riding a cooler task, and precluded conversation as they took the last leg of their journey. Porthos didn't mind. It felt safe, undemanding, to be lost within the noises of the land. But all too soon, d'Artagnan eased up once again, and they came to a stop before a bridge that crossed a small stream.

“This is the border of my father's land. Or what it used to be. I've sold a lot of it, but these few acres are still in my name.”

Nobody was quite sure what to say to that, so Porthos cleared his throat and asked, “'sthis Pierette's stream, then?”

D'Artagnan let out a surprised laugh. “Yeah, it is.”

“Y'wanna check in on her?”

“Enough's enough for one day.”

“Should I ask?” Athos drawled.

“Old lovers. But I think the pup's got enough nostalgia goin' on as it is.” Without meaning to, Porthos realized that he'd dimmed the tone again, though nobody mentioned it. Instead they guided their horses across the bridge single file.

Once across the stream, d'Artagnan turned right and guided them along the bank, until they came to a small patch of woods. “Thought we could camp here,” he said. “Lupiac's a safe place-- eh, mostly. But a bit of seclusion never hurt. And there's plenty of fish in the stream.”

“And where is the village itself?” Athos asked.

“Another ten minutes further. I'll show you in the morning. For now, I thought--”

“Thought what?”

D'Artagnan dismounted, giving him another moment before he needed to answer. “My mother's grave is at the edge of these woods. I thought I'd visit tonight.” One by one, Porthos and the others nodded in support and agreement. They too dismounted, and began to set up camp.

It took perhaps a little longer than it needed to, but the sun was only just growing pink when d'Artagnan stretched his arms, then shoved his fingers into his hair. “Let's go,” he sighed, and let his hands fall back to his sides.

The grave was a modest one, but restful, a headstone in the shape of a cross caught in between the field and the trees. “This is where she gardened all her plants that needed shade,” d'Artagnan explained, as they stopped a short distance away.

“So far from the house,” Aramis mused.

“I think my father wanted it that way. She loved it here-- she really did. But also I don't think he wanted her so close that she was all we could think about.”

“It's peaceful,” Porthos told him, with a smile.

“I only wish she weren't alone.”

“Your father is buried in the village where he died, yes?” Athos prompted.

“I left his body in the care of the innkeeper in my haste.”

“In your haste to come and kill me.”

D'Artagnan smiled.

“I remember you saying that you saw no good reason to disturb his grave.”

“I didn't. The people of the village were very kind. Though sometimes I question that decision.”

“Body ain't a person,” Porthos soothed. “You told me that, yeah?”

“I don't care that he isn't _here._ I only wish he were with my mother.”

“He is,” Aramis told him, and d'Artagnan clapped him gratefully on the shoulder.

“Would you stay here?”

Porthos, Athos, and Aramis nodded as one.

Carefully, solemnly, d'Artagnan approached the grave; he stopped before quite reaching the stone, and stared down for a long while at the earth.

A hand came to rest on Porthos' back as the three of them watched over the boy. Porthos didn't turn to see whose it was; he needed it there, didn't want a reason to push it away.

It went on as such for a while, with d'Artagnan standing motionless, a body's length away from the mossy old cross. Then all at once he lurched forward towards it. Porthos watched, heart pounding in sympathy, as d'Artagnan crumpled to his knees before his mother's headstone. Sobs overtook him. The wind bore away the sound of his weeping, but Porthos could feel the pain of it in his own belly.

There were two hands on his back now. He couldn't decide whose was whose and couldn't decide if it mattered; one was trembling, or maybe he was trembling beneath it.

The vigil was long-- but it had been a long time in coming. D'Artagnan stayed where he'd fallen; his shoulders heaved beneath the folds of his cloak, whose proud blue deepened to black as the sun slowly set.

Porthos was shoulder-to-shoulder with Aramis and Athos now. D'Artagnan's sobs calmed as the wind did, and at last he pushed himself to his feet and kissed the cross farewell.

The boy shuffled back to them wearily. No new tears were coming, but he had not yet cleaned his face; he looked frightfully young with the old tears still drying on it. He stumbled blindly into their midst, aiming for whichever brother he reached first. It was Aramis whose chest he ultimately fell against, and Athos and Porthos folded in tightly on either side.

“You gonna be all right, _mon_ _ami_?” Porthos murmured.

“I'm all right now,” d'Artagnan rasped, and somewhere in the chaos of limbs and jackets, his hand found Porthos' and squeezed. “I'm just tired.”

“Supper an' bed, then,” Porthos declared. He pulled back and wiped a stubborn tear from d'Artagnan's cheek.

And, kept together by linked elbows and hands on arms and backs, they made their way to camp.

*

D'Artagnan was slumped face-first against Porthos' back, head fallen forward onto his shoulder; Porthos bore his weight patiently. The boy's eyes were closed, his breaths congested but even. Aramis assumed him to be asleep, until he clumsily brought his arms up to encircle Porthos' waist, and gave it a healthy squeeze. Porthos smiled, leaned his head back against d'Artagnan's. “Still all right?” he prompted gently.

“Still all right,” d'Artagnan confirmed, then nuzzled against Porthos' neck with a crackling sigh.

“Supper?”

“'na minute.” 

“'m not rushin' you,” Porthos assured him, then pressed his arms flush to d'Artagnan's, snug across his own belly. D'Artagnan whined, collapsing against him all the more heavily. The boy looked completely at ease: a child with utter trust in his guardian, with no fear of the darkness around him. _Enjoy it_ , Aramis urged him silently. _Take advantage of it now, because sooner or later you'll be on your own_.

D'Artagnan seemed to. A short while later, stuffy-nosed snoring rose up behind the crackle of the fire.

“You're fallin' asleep,” Porthos muttered sideways.

The snoring stopped instantly. “No'm not.”

Porthos smiled. He waited out another round of this before repeating, a bit more loudly, “d'Artagnan, you're fallin' asleep.”

D'Artagnan groaned theatrically, but heaved himself off of Porthos and tucked up at his side instead. Porthos combed through his hair with a fond smile. Fingers and forehead brushing against Porthos' leg, it didn't take long for d'Artagnan to drift off once again.

“He didn't eat,” Athos fretted, after a little while.

“We'll feed 'im extra breakfast. Honestly, I don't think he's _actually_ still a growin' boy.”

That brought a smile to Athos' face. “That's probably for the best,” he teased, then stood, stretched, and fetched Porthos a bowl of soup. “Was it a good idea, letting him come back?”

“Don't think it woulda been our place t'say no.” Porthos accepted the bowl, and drank from it instead of using a spoon so that he could keep one hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder. “An', even ignorin' that-- yeah, I do. Think he's needed to for a while.”

Athos settled at Porthos' other side, began to discuss their plans for the next day; d'Artagnan wanted to go riding, to show them the sights of his childhood village.

It stung, how easily the three of them orbited one another. There'd been a time, before d'Artagnan, a time when the trio had been Athos and Porthos and _him_. D'Artagnan had made them happily four. Now, curled up on the cold ground, on the opposite side of the fire, Aramis understood that _he'd_ become the extra-- maybe he had been all along.

*

Porthos bid Athos and d'Artagnan goodbye as soon as the sun began to rise. Sleep-- and extra breakfast-- seemed to have restored the boy, and his cheer was colored by only the barest of hint of melancholy as he prepared to show Athos around Lupiac.

“Are you sure you won't come with us?” Athos asked again, and Porthos shook his head. He was wearier than he wanted to admit. The thought of packing bedrolls and cooking pots was an unwelcome one, when there was the option of simply leaving men at camp. And Aramis was still asleep. It seemed cruel to wake him needlessly.

So instead Porthos shook hands with both of them-- reaching up, as they'd already mounted-- and watched them ride peacefully out of the woods. Then he settled back down with a sigh. The two remaining horses were tended; the day was growing warm enough to let the fire die. He'd never get back to sleep, but perhaps he'd lay back down--

Just then there was a snuffle, and Aramis unfurled; he stretched his arms and legs to their fullest lengths, then sat up slowly.

“Mornin',” Porthos called. 

Aramis lifted his face towards the sound. “Good morning,” he replied.

“Breakfast?”

Aramis shook his head wordlessly. He stood, stretched some more, then disappeared in the direction of the stream; he returned a few minutes later with water drying on his face and hands.

This had to be it. This had to be the moment, the thing between them that would finally set their course. Porthos wanted, so desperately, for things to be as they'd been. But if this were not possible, if it could not be fixed-- he needed to  _know_ . He needed to know if Aramis was willing.

He needed to know if  _he himself_ was willing.

Aramis blinked in surprise as Porthos settled beside him. “D'Artagnan's takin' Athos 'round t'see the village.”

“How is he?”

“He's all right. How are you?”

Aramis blinked again, ducking his chin down a little, as though guarding his chest; he did not reply. Porthos took a deep breath. “You sleep all right, a'least?”

Aramis nodded. “You?”

“All right. I don't sleep so great, anymore. Better than I was, but it's kinda catchin', y'know? Every bad night makes you worry. Brings another bad night, an' on it goes.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Sleep better on the road, strange as it sounds. An' I sleep better with someone around.” He thought back to the start of it, to the nightmare that had first made him fear his own bed. “D'you-- eh. D'you remember the story you told me, about the time you found the foxglove? When you were young?”

Aramis frowned in surprise. “ _Dedalera_ ,” he mused, naming it in Spanish. “Still the sickest I've ever been.”

“You wanted to see if it'd be good in brandy.”

“Foolish child.”

“Eager to please.”

“ _Mamá_ sent for the priest, you know.”

“You never told me that,” Porthos replied, and Aramis nodded.

“I vomited so many times, I started bringing up blood. I remember, I could feel my insides-- _stopping_. So they called the village priest, and he prayed and prayed and my family cried and cried. Sometime before dawn, he gave me last rites. I still can't believe I saw that sunrise.”

“I dreamt I brought some to your grave,” Porthos confessed. “I wouldn't though; I know you've hated it ever since. But you were there. Asked me if I was joinin' you.”

Aramis smiled miserably. “If you ever choose to take your life, Porthos, promise me you'll find a more merciful way than that. I wouldn't wish foxglove poisoning on my worst enemy.” He closed his eyes, drew his legs in. “Sometimes I think-- sometimes I wonder-- how I'd've turned out, if that hadn't happened. I wonder how much it shaped me, to be seven years old and already understand how it felt to die.”

He shook his head. “Then I remember how happy the rest of my childhood was, and I think,  _stop being so dramatic_ . I had a mother and a father-- both with me, both loving me. I had enough food, and I had friends. So, who knows why I ended up like this.”

“There're worse ways t'be.”

Aramis opened his eyes, but for a moment he still seemed sightless. “There are, I'm sure. And there are worse poisons than foxglove. That doesn't excuse it.”

Porthos sighed. He'd felt the right to hate Aramis a little-- but watching Aramis hate himself was more than he could manage. His fingertips brushed Aramis' shoulder. He waited for the relief, waited for the sideways sagging; instead Aramis flinched and shook Porthos' hand away.

“'m sorry I hit you,” Porthos began, wondering if maybe that was the problem-- but Aramis spoke simultaneously, so that for a moment he didn't understand the words.

“I'm taking my vows.”

“What?”

“My vows. The monastery was where I belonged. I think my parents gave my life to God when I was seven; I think that's where I should have been all along.”

“You're leavin',” Porthos realized. “You're turnin' right back around. When?”

Aramis ran a hand through his hair. “It won't be goodbye. We'll be able to write to one another-- if you wanted to. And in any case it's better than you thinking me dead.”

“ _When_?”

“I don't know. Soon.”

“I don't understand,” Porthos muttered, sounding every bit as hurt as he felt. He wouldn't-- he _couldn't_ leave again.

“I won't--” Aramis began, then faltered. “ _Mon cher ami_. My dear, dear Porthos. I won't last much longer in Paris. Another year at most, I think. I'm tired of soldiering. I'm tired of everything.”

“I'll go with you,” Porthos offered at once. “We'll get a farm. D'Artagnan can teach us.”

“You love this life. I wouldn't ask you to forsake it for me.”

“I'd do it,” Porthos whispered. “I would. It'd be nice, I think-- jus' the two of us, even.”

Aramis sighed. “You know, there may come a day when you and I are not in each other's lives anymore.”

Porthos shook his head. “What'd I do? What did I do to you, Aramis?”

“It's just the way of things. People have different paths. You know that.”

“I know,” Porthos choked out. But he didn't know. Fuck trying to be brave, fuck trying to make peace with the thought of such a bleak future. Perhaps friendships ended, but not this one, surely?

“Please don't,” Aramis murmured, lifting his hand to Porthos' cheek as one traitorous tear broke away. “ _Cher ami_ , I've made you cry too many times already.”

“Then stop doin' it,” Porthos blurted. He pressed his face against Aramis' palm and closed his eyes, both pained and relieved by the gentle, easy touch.

“I'm only trying to be honest. Deceit has gotten us nowhere.”

“Then don't lie. Jus'-- be gentle,” Porthos replied, voice catching. “You're not leavin' tomorrow.”

“No.”

“You're not leavin' next week.”

“No.”

“Then let me think-- jus' for now, let me think I'll never lose you.” More tears were coming now. 

“We aren't children, Porthos,” Aramis murmured, pulling his hand away. “We both know that one day we'll see each other for the last time.”

“Don' say that. Don't.”

“Without me to worry about, you could go and marry Alice. If you wanted.”

“I don't want to marry Alice! I don't want-- I don't want t'end up with anyone but you.”

“For Chrissake, _why_?” Aramis wailed. “After all you've done for me, all I've done is hurt you-- so _badly_. I'm a curse on you. I'm a curse on everyone.”

Anger rose in Porthos then, and the tears came faster than ever. “Fuck you, Aramis,” he growled. “What the Cardinal did to Adele was foul an' evil. An' if you're so damn desperate to hear someone say it, I'll say it:  _it was your fault_ .”

Aramis hung his head, his own tears welling.

“But you can take this world-weary bullshit,” Porthos continued, “an' you can shove it straight up your cockhole. Because you're my best friend. You're my _brother_ , Aramis. If you woke up one mornin' an' heard the Lord callin' you to serve 'im, fine. But that ain't what happened. You're tired an' sick an' runnin' scared instead of turnin' to the people who love you--”

“Porthos.” The rage drained away as Aramis lifted his face from his hands, just loud enough to be heard. His cheeks were red, his nose running freely. “There's something you don't know. I didn't fear for your lives because of my actions with Adele. I've done something bigger-- something a lot fucking bigger.”

Porthos got up on his knees in front of him, rested his hands on his shoulders. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

“I can't,” Aramis whispered. “It could end you, my friend. My Porthos. It could end us all.”

“All right, Jesus, so don't tell me,” Porthos grunted. “Jus'-- c'mere.” And Aramis slumped into his arms, buried his face in his chest, and latched a fist onto his sleeve.

Angry as he was, Aramis felt so _good_ to hold. He was warm and solid and soft and he fit inside the gap in Porthos' arms as though it had been made for him-- or perhaps made _by_ him. Porthos lost his balance, sat back hard. Aramis shifted without hesitation into his lap, curling up against his chest, stroking his arm like a rescued child trying to remember how it felt to be safe. He'd missed this. Missed feeling strong, missed feeling brave, missed feeling like someone that someone like Aramis could trust.

And _fuck_ , he'd missed Aramis. Missed his voice and his eyes and his hands and his smile and his smell and the sound of his breathing and the way he moved his whole body in one liquid motion and how it felt when that motion was to fold up against Porthos, as though neither of them needed another thing in the world but each other--

He'd missed him, until the missing had become everything. Until the space at the back of his mind had filled permanently with the bargain: _anything to hold him, one more time_.

He was holding him now.

So, he'd be angry tomorrow. Christ Almighty, he'd be angry tomorrow, and then probably the next day as well, and the next. For now, he was simply too tired. And Aramis was warm, and weighty against his body, like an anchor, like a pillow. So Porthos held on.

*

With the sun overhead it was pleasantly warm. Athos and d'Artagnan were in good spirits as they returned with a hearty lunch, gifted by a neighbor with fond memories of d'Artagnan's family.

Those spirits lifted further as they rode into camp, came upon a reassuring sight.

Mashed together in a fervent embrace were Porthos and Aramis.

It was difficult to tell who was comforting whom. Porthos had Aramis fitted against his chest, chin settled neatly in his hair; Aramis had one of Porthos' hands between both of his, and was rubbing it as though chasing away a chill. Porthos was sniffling; Aramis' eyes were a lurid, bleary red. But they shared a smile so genuine, so serene, that it seemed that they'd found a ladder, stuck it against the side of the world, and climbed until all that had hurt them was forgotten beneath their feet.

“Well,” Athos said, smiling over at d'Artagnan, “that is a good start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I ramble, a note: 80% of this story was written under the assumption that it would ultimately fit between episodes of the second season. That didn't end up happening, both for the sake of timing and emotional realism. Nevertheless, a consequence of this is that there is no "dauphin reveal" here, even though one may have been logical. I'm currently figuring out whether or not I want to include one in the sequel. In any case. I thought that was worthwhile addressing.
> 
> In any case, wow. Well. I can't believe this is over so soon. Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ to all who read and especially to those who left feedback. 
> 
> The story definitely doesn't end here. It's going to take the boys longer than a week to recover from something this big. I'm about 20 pages into the sequel now, trying to figure out the exact scope I want it to cover. 
> 
> But that's a few months off at least... for now I want to say thank you again, and I hope you enjoyed!


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